Joe grabbed her arm before she stepped into the pasture. “It’s about to pour on us.”
She looked up at the dark clouds rolling over them, scowling with all her might.
“It better not rain on us,” she muttered in return. “I’ve got a field full of clues out there and a missing horse to find.”
A gust of wind blew past them and Joe rubbed his hands together. “Unfortunately, as talented as you are, even you cannot control the weather.”
“I can’t go back now, Joe,” she said. “I need to investigate that field before–”
A crack of thunder cut her words and fat raindrops fell from the clouds. Irene slumped her shoulders and kicked at a tuft of grass.
“Let’s get back,” Joe yelled through the rain. Irene took one last look at the fields as the drops grew heavier, soaking her clothes.
He stepped in front of her, blinking rapidly, keeping the rain from his eyes. His white shirt clung to him and he hunched his shoulders.
“Irene, please.”
She resigned and trudged behind him back to the house.
* * * * *
Irene stared at the fire, glaring at the crackling logs. A whole evening of investigating was ruined by some lousy weather. She already had several theories as to what happened to the missing horse and the dead bodies, but there were so many details still left to work out.
She pulled her blanket tighter around her, the wool scratching her bare skin. The fire was the only light in the room and the shadows danced along with the flame as the bright orange and yellow consumed the log. The bedroom assigned to her for the night was small and quaint, the fireplace making the entire atmosphere cosy.
It was lost on Irene, though, because all she wanted to do was stare into the flames and try to connect what little details she'd acquired after her night was cut short, and stew in the fact that she’d grossly missed deducing Joe’s occupation.
A soft knock came from the door.
“Enter,” she called, blanket bunched under her chin.
Joe wandered into the room, then noticed her pouting. He sighed.
“You haven’t changed your clothes, have you?” he asked. “Why don’t you ever get dressed? I’m beginning to understand Miss Hudson’s frustration with you.”
He must’ve noticed her discarded clothes, soaked from the rain, next to a few choices of outfits for tonight’s dinner.
“You are completely unclothed under that blanket, aren’t you?” he hissed, keeping his voice low. “Irene, you mustn’t do that!”
He hurried to the door and shut it, presumably to keep people from peeking in at her indecency, even though the guest rooms were in an entirely separate part of the house.
She dropped her head back. “And why not? What is the point of getting dressed if I am going to sit here and think?”
“Because we’ve been invited for dinner,” he replied, poking through her things. “Why is your bag overturned?”
“I don’t want dinner,” she said, using her feet to shuffle herself on the chair to face him. “And I can’t find my blue shirt.”
He looked at her, then immediately looked away. Poor Joe was such a proper gentleman that even though she was completely cocooned in a blanket, he still refused to lay eyes on her.
“Do you think the blanket is simply going to dissolve?” she teased.
“I honestly don’t know what to think,” he said. “But you need to get dressed. Look, your blue shirt is right here...under an arrow?”
He pulled a wooden arrow from the bottom of the bag, tip sharp, white feathers a bit crumpled.
“Why do you have an arrow in here?”
“Last time I packed that bag, I brought along my bow,” Irene shrugged. “I must’ve forgotten to empty all the arrows when I returned home.”
Joe shook his head and pulled out her blue short-sleeved blouse. He laid it flat on the bed, then found a pair of pants on the floor and set them over the shirt.
“Here, blue shirt and blue pants,” he said as she narrowed her eyes at his choice of outfit. “I think they match.”
“They do.”
“Jolly good,” he said, pointing to the clothes to further his point. “Put them on and come for dinner.”
She stood, the blanket still wrapped around her, and shuffled to the bed. She then leaned forward and fell face-first onto the mattress, head just missing the arrow beside her clothes.
“What’s the point?” she moaned through the blanket. “All the clues washed away.”
She felt Joe sit on the bed beside her. From the other end of the house, the pack of dogs erupted into a chorus of barks and Joe laughed at the noise. He patted Irene’s shoulder.
“You were the one who convinced me to come all the way out here,” he reminded her. “And now you’re pouting?”
“I’m not pouting,” she said. “I’m thinking.”
“Think while you dress,” Joe said. “I am hungry and if I show up to dinner without you, they will wonder why.”
She laughed despite herself. “You sound like me.”
“Good,” Joe chuckled. He tossed her shirt at her and it landed on her head. Then he left the room, shutting the door behind him.
* * * * *
The dining room was small but decorated as if it were part of Buckingham Palace. Portraits of horses hung on the walls, and behind the head chair was a painting of Mr. Richardson and Maximus.
Irene plopped down at the table and Joe took up the seat beside her. Mr. Richardson was already seated in front of the great portrait of himself, fork in his hand, ready to eat. Mrs. Richardson sat at the opposite end, a pleasant smile on her face. Margaret sat opposite Irene, with an ever-present annoyed expression. An empty chair was beside her, presumably waiting for Phillip, who was noticeably absent.
The maid brought out soup as an appetizer, setting the bowls in front of everyone. Irene grabbed her spoon and started on the broth, secretly glad she hadn’t remained stubborn and skipped dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Richardson tucked in as well. Margaret, though, hesitated, as if summoning her appetite.
Irene stared at the empty chair as she took another sip of her meal.
“Phillip not joining us?” she asked.
Margaret shook her head. “With everything that’s happened, he was feeling a bit under the weather. He wanted to lay down, try to rid himself of his headache.”
The front doorbell rang throughout the house and the five spaniels erupted into a chorus of yips and barks. Mr. Richardson stomped on the floor.
“Silence, all of you,” he growled, then shook his head. “Lousy weather has kept these mutts in the house and they are trying my last bit of patience.”
“They are certainly good watchdogs, though,” Joe observed.
“Too good,” Mr. Richardson sighed. “They hear every bloody noise that goes through this house and bark as if there’s a prize for loudest sound.”
The door to the dining room opened and the dogs went mad again. The maid entered, apologizing profusely for interrupting dinner, but the dogs drowned her out. She hurried out of the room and a strapping man with a full moustache, dressed to the nines, entered the dining hall. The dogs circled him, barking and wagging their tails.
Irene immediately took in his appearance. Clothes slightly ruffled, but jacket pressed. Boots damp from the rain outside, but oddly enough, as he walked further into the room, Irene spotted a few soggy oak leaves stuck to the bottom of his heels.
No oak trees lined the front walk, and the only ones she’d observed on the property were ones at the rear of the house.
Mr. Richardson stood and shook the man’s hand and he came around and sat next to Margaret. Irene caught the gaze between the newcomer and Margaret as everyone else turned back to their dinner. A lingering stare and a slight turn-up of the lips was enough to add another piece to this ever-growing puzzle of a case.
“Who are you?” Irene asked. “I wasn’t aware there were to be any other guests here until these murders wer
e solved.”
Perhaps this man would lend a clue to the murders, or maybe he would be a nuisance. Either way, Irene didn’t like the look of him and would have him removed from the house as soon as Eddy arrived from London, which would be any minute.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Holmes,” Mr. Richardson said. “This is Anthony, the–”
“Trainer from the stables down the road,” Irene finished.
“Yes!” Mr. Richardson exclaimed, seemingly shocked at how she made such a deduction. He motioned to her and Joe. “This is Doctor and Mrs. Holmes, here to find my horse.”
Anthony nodded to them both. “Good to meet you.”
“I am curious as to why he is here,” Irene said, ignoring Anthony and directing her question to Mr. Richardson instead. “Given that he presumably works for your direct competition.”
Anthony chuckled before deciding to lend an answer. “We’ve had our fair share of battles, but I decided to pay my respects as a show of good faith. A lost horse is no good for anyone.”
Irene caught the frustrated inflexion in his voice. She didn’t know the world of competitive dressage that well, but in her knowledge of any sport, the less talent in the competition, the better. And if this man had the runner-up horse, and Maximus was missing, that made this man’s horse number one. So, why did he seem frustrated and desperate to know what was going on at this farm?
The main course came out swiftly and Irene barely tasted it, her eyes were glued to the others at the table. Mr. Richardson ate as if angry at his food, shovelling the potatoes and beef into his mouth as if the quicker he ate, the sooner his horse would return. Margaret ate in small lady-like bites, her eyes flicking over to Anthony every now and then as if hoping he’d notice her dainty eating style.
Anthony, however, was an entirely different story. His eyes were everywhere but on Margaret, and halfway through the meal, they settled on Irene. He was antsy, shifting in his seat multiple times. One could chalk it up to being nervous about his own horses, but he seemed anxious to get a task done and over with, like a child going to the doctor.
“You solved anything yet?” he asked.
Irene smirked at him. “Plenty.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, who did it?”
“Oh,” she said, with feigned sweetness. “I haven’t solved that, yet.”
“Then what have you done?”
Mr. Richardson leaned forward. “Leave her be, Anthony.”
After a small glare at her, he returned to his meal.
“Tell me about the other horses,” Irene said to Mr. Richardson.
“Bradbury and Tophat are middle grades when it comes to dressage. Sound, good at their jobs, but not as top-notch as my Maximus. And Musgrave, that big red beauty, is as wild as they come. Young, chomping at the bit, but shows much promise once we’ve got him broke.”
“My offer still stands,” Anthony interjected. “I will gladly take Musgrave off your hands.”
Mr. Richardson laughed. “No chance. He’s my next big winner.”
“He needs consistency,” Margaret added in a quiet voice.
Anthony laughed. “You’re good with the horses, Marge, but gentle hands never make a good horse. You don’t need to worry about that anymore, anyway. Not with your back.”
She agreed with him but looked at her plate as a scowl crossed her face. They finished dinner, and as the maid cleared the dishes, Margaret stood.
“I’m going to look in on Phillip,” she announced. “Then I shall join you for tea if that’s alright.”
Irene kept her eyes on Anthony as he watched Margaret walk away. His gaze followed her hips as they swung back and forth in her dress. That was all Irene needed to confirm her suspicions that he was infatuated with the poor woman.
But she wondered who the fool was. Phillip, whose wife was having an affair with his rival, or Anthony chasing someone he would never truly have?
Within moments of Margaret wandering upstairs, a loud shriek came from the second floor. The dogs barked and howled, scrambling to their feet as another scream came down to them.
Everyone jumped from their seats and ran from the room.
Irene didn’t know the layout of the house, but she found stairs and leapt up them two at a time. She recognized that scream as one of gruesome terror.
She nearly passed the bedroom, but stumbled to a stop and waited at the threshold, for fear of ruining whatever scene she was about to witness.
Phillip hung from the ceiling, the rope from the drapes wrapped around his neck and slung over the chandelier hook. He swayed slowly back and forth, a tipped over chair beneath him.
“I’ll be damned,” Irene cursed under her breath. “The night isn’t a complete waste, after all.”
Chapter IV
Inspector Lestrade's Arrival
Joe dragged his eyes away from the hanging body and grasped Irene’s wrist, hissing in her ear.
“Wrong thing to say.”
She waved him off. “No one heard me.”
Margaret circled Phillip, mouth agape, hands hovering, unsure of where to grasp him. She made small squeaking sounds, completely in shock.
Joe went to step forward, into the room, but Irene grabbed his arm.
“No,” she said. “I don’t want the crime scene trampled–”
“Bloody hell!” Mr. Richardson’s booming voice came from behind them. He shoved Joe into the room.
“Get in there!” He barked. “Let’s get him down. Phillip! Perhaps he’s still alive! Phillip!”
Joe spun around to face Mr. Richardson and caught the look on Irene’s face. She was ready to send everyone away in her usual curt fashion, and he had a feeling that this would be the end of the investigation if she spoke rudely at this moment.
“Mr. Richardson, please,” Joe said. “Give us a moment–”
“A moment?” Anthony pushed past Mr. Richardson. “Look at the poor man. My god...Phillip.”
Mrs. Richardson peeked in and let out a shriek. Mr. Richardson went to her immediately, turning her away from the horrid scene.
Margaret sobbed in the middle of the room, grabbing at Phillip’s legs, saying his name over and over. Anthony puffed his chest, trying to control the scene while keeping his composure. He wasn’t very competent at it as Joe noticed the bulging vein in his neck and his trembling hands.
“Come here, Marge,” he said. “Just...just look away from him. We’ll get him down. Just...look away, alright?”
He sounded like he would be sick at any moment, and any confidence he exuded was lost with his green face and his trembling words. Margaret shook her head.
“I can’t leave him,” she sobbed. “We can’t leave him like this. My Phillip...”
Irene ignored them all and surveyed the scene. It was now up to Joe to contain everyone and keep them from Irene’s investigative path.
Easier said than done.
“Anthony,” Joe began, trying to muster up all the command he could. “Take Mrs. greenly out of the room. Now. We will–”
“You will do nothing, young man,” Anthony spat, eyes wild with fury. “A man has died and–”
Irene clapped her hands together, hard. “And it is all unfortunate. But, before anyone touches the body, I must investigate the whole scene to be sure I don’t miss anything of importance.”
“Anything of importance?” Anthony said as Margaret erupted into another round of sobs. “What more do you need to investigate? Phillip hanged himself!”
“Did he?” Irene snapped. “You seem so certain.”
Anthony’s mouth fell open and he stared at Irene. Mr. Richardson appeared at the doorway, bushy eyebrows drawn together in confusion.
“I trust your skills, Mrs. Holmes,” Mr. Richardson said. “But–”
“And you will continue to trust them,” she said, then spun on the spot and stared at the room again. “Everyone leave or stand in the hallway in silence. Either way, get out of this room before you trample the scene worse than it has bee
n.”
Joe felt the tension in the room rise until you could cut it with a knife. He attempted his command again, knowing this was about to dissolve into chaos and anger directed at Irene, and she would retaliate with something just as vile.
“Miss Holmes is usually quick to process crime scenes,” Joe attempted to explain. “We will have Phillip down in minutes. If everyone could please go downstairs and take care of Mrs. Greenly.”
They all stared at him as if waiting for more of an explanation, but he didn’t know what else to say. He was very aware that Irene was already crouched, studying the floor, and that a body slowly spun from the ceiling behind him, but he could offer them no more than what was about to take place. He just hoped that they all went downstairs and left him and Irene to their jobs.
Joe also worried that if he thought about what exactly was happening behind him, he’d pale and look less professional and that would start their worry all over again.
Margaret burst into another set of tears and Anthony beckoned her to him. She listened this time and melted into his arms. He led her away from the room and down the stairs. As Mr. Richardson turned to leave, Irene called to him.
“Mr. Richardson?” she said. “Please send the maid up with corn starch and cocoa powder please.”
He looked dumbfounded for a moment and glanced at Joe. He had no idea what she would use either for, but he couldn’t let Mr. Richardson know that, so he simply gave a curt nod.
“I suppose I’ll phone Scotland Yard,” Mr. Richardson said.
Irene shook her head. “No need. Inspector Lestrade should be here at any moment. You may call the coroner though.”
“Mrs. Holmes,” he said. “What if Inspector Lestrade doesn’t arrive for another while?”
Irene stood straight and stared Mr. Richardson down. A little panic rose in Joe as he caught the stern, stubborn look on Irene’s face.
“And what are the police going to do?” Irene snapped. “Bring him back to life? No, they are not. DI Lestrade is all we will need.”
The Impossible Murderer Page 5
