A Silent Stabbing

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Who was it?” They all knew the answer to Lady Phoebe’s question, but they needed to hear it from Mrs. Corbyn.

  “The American. Mr. Walker. It was dreadful. So dreadful.” She shuddered and drew her arms around herself. “So much blood. And then I heard footsteps, and Fred came into the barn. When he saw me he immediately started shouting at me to run . . . to run and hide. And to tell no one what I’d seen. I didn’t know what to think. There was no one else there. Did . . . did my husband kill the American?” She ended on a tremulous whisper.

  It was a question neither Eva nor Lady Phoebe could answer. While it certainly appeared that way—Mrs. Corbyn said there hadn’t been anyone else there—Eva and Lady Phoebe knew there had been. Ezra Gaff had been to the farm. They didn’t know when he had arrived, but they had seen him leaving as they arrived in the Vauxhall.

  Fred Corbyn had sent Mr. Gaff away before he’d gone into the barn and discovered Horace Walker there. But he had made no mention of having had an argument with the American. Then again, Mrs. Corbyn had never actually seen the men. Could she be certain Mr. Walker had been arguing with her husband? Perhaps Mr. Corbyn never came in from the pastures until after Mr. Walker had been killed.

  Perhaps the argument had been between Mr. Walker and Ezra Gaff. And perhaps Mr. Corbyn had ordered his wife to run and hide because he feared Gaff might return.

  “It’s a long walk back to the house,” Lady Phoebe said, rising. She and Eva helped Elaina Corbyn to her feet. She swayed a bit. Lady Phoebe regarded her sturdy Wellington boots and asked, “Do you think you can walk?”

  Mrs. Corbyn nodded, again sweeping the bangs off her forehead. “I’ll be all right. We can’t stay here all afternoon, can we?”

  “I might be able to drive my motorcar across the fields,” Lady Phoebe offered, but Mrs. Corbyn shook her head.

  “No, I can make it. I have to get back. There are the boys to think about.” The fear crept back into her eyes.

  “The boys are safe,” Eva reminded her. “They’re at school.”

  “But they’ll hear things soon enough. A man killed in their barn, and their father—” She gasped, her hand rising to her mouth. “You said my husband is at the police station. Has he been arrested?”

  Eva and Lady Phoebe traded pained looks. Eva shook her head. “I honestly don’t know at this point.”

  Despite Mrs. Corbyn’s insistence that she could manage the long walk, Eva and Lady Phoebe took turns supporting her as her emotions got the best of her. Her eyes filled anew on more than one occasion, and this would cause her to weep blindly and lose her footing, or she’d appear faint and her knees would wobble beneath her. For the first time in her adult life, Eva bemoaned her inability to drive a motorcar, for otherwise she’d have run back for the Vauxhall. She didn’t suggest Lady Phoebe do so, not after how clearly taxing the walk to the pump house had been for her.

  She breathed a silent sigh of relief when the farmhouse came into view. Once inside, Lady Phoebe suggested making tea as they had done earlier for Mr. Corbyn, but Mrs. Corbyn shook her head.

  “I need to collect my boys. Will you motor me into the village?”

  “Of course,” Lady Phoebe was quick to assure her. “We’ll go right now.”

  “Yes, just let me find my handbag and change into a coat. It’s grown chillier, I think. I can’t seem to stop shivering. And my shoes. I must change them.” She glanced down at the pair of Wellies she was wearing, typical farm footwear.

  Eva determined it was the shock making the woman shiver and focus on things that didn’t matter, such as what shoes she wore. As Mrs. Corbyn left the kitchen in search of her things, Eva noticed an item hanging near the garden door and went to it.

  “Mrs. Corbyn’s jacket is here,” she said to Lady Phoebe, and touched the brown tweed garment that had helped them identify the owner of the flat cap found near Stephen Ripley’s body.

  A few minutes later, Elaina Corbyn reentered the kitchen. She had changed into sensible walking shoes and wore what appeared to Eva to be a winter coat made of thick wool with a high shawl collar, large outer pockets, and a hemline that reached her ankles. Poor woman, probably whisked it around her without realizing it wasn’t the jacket she usually wore this time of year. And she had forgotten her handbag. No matter; she wouldn’t be needing it.

  Keeping their gazes averted from the barn where Mr. Walker still lay in a pool of his own blood, they squeezed into the Vauxhall, Elaina Corbyn sitting nearest the door. “I’m feeling dreadfully queasy,” she told them. “I’ll need the air.” As Lady Phoebe pulled out onto the village road, Mrs. Corbyn spoke again, her voice small and tight. “Will I be forced to testify against my own husband, do you think?”

  “I think that’s getting ahead of things,” Eva said. “We don’t know that he’s been charged with anything.”

  “The man I married couldn’t have committed such a vile act.”

  “No, of course not,” Lady Phoebe said soothingly.

  “I’ve never known him to be violent.” The woman took on a desperate tone, as if she were trying to convince them. “But maybe Mr. Walker threatened Fred, and Fred acted in self-defense. They don’t hang a man for that, do they?”

  Wishing she could offer reassurances, but not wanting to fill Mrs. Corbyn with false hopes, Eva grasped her hand. And then she remembered something Fred Corbyn had told them, which could make all the difference. “Mrs. Corbyn, according to your husband, Mr. Walker was going to continue to allow you to use the northeast pasture for your sheep. Is that true?”

  The woman stared at her in puzzlement. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard a word about it.”

  Eva’s hopes for the man, and for this woman and their family, sank.

  The road curved and the Vauxhall came to a fork, right toward the village’s ancient medieval gates, or straight to continue north toward Foxwood Hall. Lady Phoebe prepared to turn the vehicle to the right.

  “Don’t,” Mrs. Corbyn said. “Keep driving.”

  “What do you mean?” Lady Phoebe looked over, leaning a bit to see around Eva. “The school is that way, through the village.”

  “I know good and well where the school is. I said drive.”

  An icy, slithery sensation of dread crept up Eva’s spine.

  Lady Phoebe’s brows converged and her chin came up. “I don’t understand.”

  Mrs. Corbyn shifted, freed her hand from Eva’s, and in the next moment something hard, cylindrical, and cold poked against Eva’s ribs. Her limbs turned to liquid and her core threatened to dissolve.

  She swallowed. “My lady, please do as Mrs. Corbyn asks.”

  “I’m not asking,” the woman corrected her. “I’m demanding. Keep driving, Lady Phoebe, or my husband’s gun might accidentally discharge into your maid’s side.”

  “What?” Lady Phoebe’s question was merely instinctual; Eva had every assurance that her mistress had heard Mrs. Corbyn perfectly. Without another word Lady Phoebe made the necessary correction to the steering wheel to keep the Vauxhall on its northerly course.

  * * *

  They rode for some moments in silence. Phoebe turned several possibilities over in her mind. They would pass Foxwood Hall shortly. Could she turn onto the drive, gun the motor, and reach the house before Elaina Corbyn made good on her threat? The open gates with their stone pillars came into view, and beyond the treetops, the chimneys of the house beckoned like stalwart friends for Phoebe to turn in.

  She didn’t dare risk it. And yet, even with the decision made, she involuntarily slowed the Vauxhall as if to make the turn.

  “Don’t even consider it, Lady Phoebe,” the woman holding the gun warned. “You should understand by now I don’t make idle threats.”

  “No,” Phoebe agreed. “I shall take you at your word.” Why shouldn’t she? By her actions in the past several minutes, Mrs. Corbyn had revealed herself to be a cold-blooded killer. Phoebe pressed the gas, half tempted now to crash into the nearest tree or rock wall. But to
what end? She could kill them all.

  “No one need be hurt so long as you both cooperate. I want only to leave Little Barlow behind me. Far, far behind.”

  “What about your boys?” Eva asked.

  “They’re not my boys,” the woman snapped. “They’re merely stepsons, Fred’s from his first marriage. I have no boys, no children at all, and I never shall. The war saw to that. Fred cannot . . . ever again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eva whispered, and Phoebe heard sincerity in her voice. “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t know. It’s not the sort of thing one goes about discussing.” She chuckled grimly. “It’s his army sidearm pressed up against you.”

  “But you must care for them, for the boys.” Phoebe’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You’ve been their mother since before the war. You’ve made their clothes, fed them. . . .”

  “Don’t remind me. Cloying, demanding little leeches. They’ve sucked my youth away, my life. I’ll be glad to be rid of them, and of my husband. Marrying him was an impulsive act I’ve regretted ever since. And as for that blasted farm, sheep are smelly, dirty, disgusting creatures. I don’t care if I never see another one again.”

  “You’ll have to leave England, then,” Eva said drily.

  “I just might at that.” Phoebe could hear the smile in the woman’s voice.

  “But where can you go? And with what?” Phoebe squinted as the road turned and the afternoon sun hit them head on. “You can’t live on nothing.”

  Mrs. Corbyn patted her coat pocket with her free hand. “I won’t live on nothing. I’ve been saving a few shillings here, a pound or two there, for years now. I’ve got enough laid by to see me comfortably if modestly settled, until I can find employment. My sewing skills are of the highest quality. It’s not what I was hoping for, but I’ll get by. And it won’t be in some backwater village, I can promise you that.”

  “It was you,” Phoebe said, with sudden insight. “You must have learned of Horace Walker’s desire to buy land in Little Barlow, and you contacted Stephen Ripley about it.”

  The woman nodded, a little half smile persisting. “I knew Keenan was having problems paying his bills, and it presented an opportunity I couldn’t ignore. I hate this village, everything about it. I’m sick of dirt and worse on my shoes, tired of village gossips, of our mean little church, never having anything interesting to do.... London—now there’s a town. I suppose London won’t be far enough away now, not unless I kill you both.” She laughed, a throaty, menacing sound that sent a shiver through Phoebe and convinced her the woman meant her words.

  “Killing us won’t save you,” Eva said defiantly. She sat stiffly upright against the seat, and Phoebe could only imagine the terrifying sensation of the pistol barrel pressed against her ribs. “The police will figure it out and they’ll come looking for you. They’ll close the ports.”

  “For one farmwife? On account of a shiftless gardener and a scheming land developer? I hardly think so. Perhaps I’ll go to France, or Brussels. Who knows?”

  What to do? How to disarm this woman? While stone walls, hedgerows, and undulating fields blurred on either side of the motorcar, Phoebe agonized over options that each promised to bring harm to Eva, to both of them. She could only encourage Elaina Corbyn to talk, with hopes of distracting her until some opportunity presented itself. Phoebe said, “What could you hope to accomplish with the sale of the Ripley land? It’s not as though the money would have found its way into your purse.”

  “I thought it would solve everything, force my husband to sell the farm and try his luck at something else. There’ve been years he was this close to doing so anyway. Do you realize how much more a man can make working in a factory? Foremen make princely sums compared to farmers, especially since the demand for wool isn’t what it was during and before the war.”

  That might be so, but Phoebe didn’t bother pointing out that city living also cost more than village life.

  “I thought this would finally force his hand.” The woman pushed air through her lips, making a sound as though she spat. “And you’re wrong about the money. Ripley and Walker both promised me a handsome payment once the sale went through. But then my interfering husband convinced Mr. Walker he needed sheep roaming the land around his resort, that it would be picturesque. Stephen thought it a grand idea and laughed when I demanded he dissuade Mr. Walker of the idea.”

  “And you killed him for that?”

  “No, not for that alone.” The woman tilted her head, allowing the incoming breeze to ruffle her fringe of bangs. “It was his sudden refusal to pay me my share. When I met him that morning at Foxwood Hall to discuss how and when I wanted my payment, he laughed and told me I could expect nothing.”

  “And that was when you pushed over the ladder and stabbed him with his own shears.” Eva gave a disgusted shake of her head. “And Mr. Walker?”

  The woman scoffed. Before she answered, she pointed at the road ahead. “Take the eastbound road.” She sat up straighter, watching the rutted, packed-earth road disappear beneath the bonnet of the motorcar. Once Phoebe had made the turn, she relaxed again. “Mr. Walker . . . He also refused to honor his promise to me. Said circumstances became too complicated and he likely wouldn’t be buying the land after all.”

  Phoebe compressed her lips. Had she and Eva not been in such a predicament, she might have smiled or even laughed out loud. What Mrs. Corbyn didn’t know was that the “complication” Mr. Walker had spoken of involved Phoebe’s grandfather deciding to bid for the land himself.

  Instead of revealing that morsel of information, she asked, “Where are we headed? Oxford?” That would make sense. From there Mrs. Corbyn might board a train to London. Or she could continue south and book passage across the channel. Then there were the eastern ports, but even if Mrs. Corbyn had been putting money away these past years, Phoebe doubted she’d wish to part with enough ready cash for passage to Bruges or beyond. No, Dover to Calais made the most sense. How long before anyone in Little Barlow thought to come after them, much less figured out in which direction to go?

  And where would Mrs. Corbyn leave them behind? Phoebe knew the answer. She and Eva would not be left behind. At some point, the woman would demand Phoebe stop the motorcar, perhaps in some wooded area, somewhere deserted. She would order them out of the Vauxhall, away from the road, and kill them both. Could Elaina Corbyn drive a motorcar? She probably could. Many farm wives had experience driving their husbands’ lorries.

  Eva must have been entertaining similar thoughts, for as Phoebe looked over at her, she noticed Eva casting sideways glances at the door latch. Was she considering reaching across, opening the door, and shoving their captor out? Too dangerous. Phoebe nudged Eva and gave a slight shake of her head. If Eva couldn’t implement her plan fast enough, Mrs. Corbyn would pull the trigger.

  Mrs. Corbyn would dispatch them both, unless a solid opportunity for escape came their way. Again Phoebe considered simply swerving and crashing the car. That might give them a fighting chance, but the impact could also cause the gun to fire directly into Eva’s side. Phoebe couldn’t risk it.

  What to do then? Phoebe didn’t know. Her throat tightened around a sense of helplessness, and she prayed for a miracle.

  CHAPTER 19

  Damn and blast. Eva could have kicked herself for the many clues she had missed concerning Elaina Corbyn. How blind she had been. How foolish. And now she and Lady Phoebe were to pay the price.

  If only she hadn’t hesitated—if she had only reached and opened the vehicle door the instant the notion had entered her head, she and her beloved mistress might at this moment be safe. But she had hesitated over the wisdom of such an action, and Lady Phoebe had recognized her intention for the flawed act of recklessness it was.

  But what else was to be done? How to outwit a heartless, calculating killer with no conscience whatsoever?

  “Do you know what I find most appalling?” Eva said aloud, not particularly
caring if Elaina Corbyn answered her or not. “I find it inconceivable that after murdering Stephen Ripley in cold blood, and with such violence, you went to his brother’s house to enjoy tea and scones.” Eva turned her head to scrutinize the woman’s profile. “That was you at Keenan’s that same morning, wasn’t it?”

  “Eva,” Lady Phoebe said, “please don’t antagonize her.”

  Mrs. Corbyn turned to meet Eva’s gaze, her expression bland. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never had tea and scones nor anything else at Keenan Ripley’s home. If I wish myself free of one farmer, do you suppose I’d take up with another?”

  Eva turned to exchange a glance with Lady Phoebe and saw her own surprise reflected in Lady Phoebe’s hazel eyes, along with a belief that, in this instance, Elaina Corbyn was telling the truth.

  Could Keenan have been sincere when he said both teacups had been his, one from that morning and the other from the night before? Could all of Eva’s attempts to identify his “guest,” and believing it to be Alice, have sent her on a wild goose chase? No wonder she had missed clues about Elaina Corbyn’s behavior, being as focused as she had been on her sister’s actions.

  That wasn’t all. She thought back to the day the villagers had gathered to bring in the pear harvest. Almost every other farmwife had gone with her husband to the orchard, but Mrs. Corbyn had stayed away. And when Eva met her in the pasture, the woman had been wearing her tweed jacket. Again, Eva had missed the clue. True, she hadn’t seen the flat cap left near Stephen Ripley’s body before the chief inspector had taken it as evidence, but shouldn’t she have asked more questions about it and compared Lady Phoebe’s description to Mrs. Corbyn’s homemade jacket?

  And—good heavens!—the short, wavy auburn hairs left in the cap? Even now, Mrs. Corbyn’s cropped bangs rippled in the breeze like mocking flags being waved in Eva’s face. Didn’t they perfectly fit the description of the hairs the police had discovered?