by Tamara Berry
My patience is soon rewarded.
“Eleanor, please allow me to introduce you to Lewis King.” Nicholas speaks with all the social grace I’ve come to expect of him. “Lewis is—was—Sarah Blackthorne’s nephew.”
“Of course, the nephew,” I say, even though I have no more knowledge of Sarah’s family tree than I do that of the Habsburgs. “What a terrible tragedy. You must have come down from London the moment you heard—and on the early train, too, poor man. Public transport can be such a trial when you’ve had a shock.”
Nicholas’s lips twitch in what I suspect is a smile, but he has enough control over himself to hide it. He knows as well as I do that Sarah never spoke to me if she could possibly help it, let alone discussed her nephews. But he also knows that I can read a person faster than I can a road sign. That beard? That suit? Nothing screams a long, early morning commute in a railcar louder than that.
“Oh, d-did Aunt Sarah mention me?” Lewis stammers, somewhat bewildered.
Never one to lie if he can possibly help it, Nicholas coughs and changes the subject. “Eleanor moved to the village a few months ago. She bought the cottage on the west lane.”
“The w-west lane, eh?” Lewis turns his head to examine me more closely. His stammering is less pronounced, but still evident. As neither man acknowledges it, I assume it’s a condition of long standing. “That’s interesting.”
“Is it?” I ask.
Nicholas’s own smile is tight. “Lewis is referring to the cottage’s origins, of course. He’s always been fascinated with that part of history.”
I blink, confused at the animosity flowing from Nicholas toward the newcomer, who, from the look of it, is not only mild and unobtrusive, but a man in mourning. Especially since I’ve always understood the cottage to have been built and inhabited by a centuries-old family whose primary function was to tend to the Hartfords—first as servants, and later as general factotums.
Until I bought it, of course. Factoting has never been my strong suit.
All is explained when Lewis says, “It was b-built for the first Hartford’s mistress, wasn’t it?”
“Was it?” I ask, instantly diverted. General factotums are all well and good, but I’ll take a seedy sex scandal over commonplace drudgery any day of the week. “That’s a story I haven’t heard before. I had no idea I lived next to such a sordid family. Tell me more.”
Lewis opens his mouth—presumably to spill all the details—but he’s prevented by a low cough and Nicholas’s gentle but firm, “I really am sorry about your aunt, Lewis. Her death must have come as a blow, sudden as it was. I’m sure there’s quite a bit of work to do making arrangements and so forth, so we won’t keep you.”
It’s a testament to Nicholas’s inborn autocracy that Lewis drops the subject of mistresses and love shacks as easily as he picked it up.
“Alas, you’re right.” Lewis nods his agreement. “Aunt Sarah was never great at k-keeping things in any kind of order. The last time she had me down to look things over, she had three decades’ worth of t-tax receipts in a box. It’ll take a few days to untangle everything. I’ve resigned myself to staying over the weekend.”
I open my mouth to add that it could end up taking much longer than that if he wants to see justice done to her murderer, but Nicholas gives a curt shake of his head, so I close it again.
“At least the c-company has improved since my last visit,” Lewis says with a polite nod at me. “Send my regards to your mother, won’t you, Nicholas?”
“I will. If you find time, you should stop by for a visit. I’m sure she’d love to see you again.”
Lewis finds nothing odd in this pronouncement, which leads me to believe he doesn’t spend nearly as much time in these parts as his conversation suggests. Vivian doesn’t love seeing anyone, let alone shaggy young men with little to recommend them.
I wait only until Lewis’s disheveled head departs before turning to Nicholas with an accusing finger in the air. “I’m living in a den of iniquity, and you never once thought to mention it?”
Nicholas sighs. “Something tells me you aren’t about to berate me for my ancestors’ moral laxity, are you?”
I’m not. Not even close. “You know how much I love dens of iniquity. And scandals. You told me it was the gatekeeper’s cottage, but we must have different ideas of what that job constitutes. Was the first Hartford a cad? Did he seduce an innocent maiden and install her there, or do the family tastes run more to runaway actresses? Oh! Are there dozens of illegitimate Hartfords roaming the countryside even to this day?”
Nicholas declines to answer my questions, which leads me to believe there’s more to this story. In fact, the way he sighs and shakes his head makes me think there might even be illegitimate Hartfords numbering in the hundreds.
“And here I always thought you guys were pillars of the community,” I say with a cluck of my tongue. “Oh, dear. What would my friend the vicar say?”
He struggles to suppress a smile. “My friend the vicar would tell you not to throw stones at glass houses, Madame Eleanor.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” I protest. “Is that meant to cast an aspersion on my profession, or my name?”
“Can’t I asperse both?”
“You can,” I allow. “But I’m not the one who just invited a grieving man to visit your mother. She’ll probably make him bring his own tea and dance for his supper. Spill. Why don’t you like him?”
He blinks. “Did I say that?”
“You didn’t have to. I sensed it.” I place a hand to my temple. “So much animosity . . . And at such a troubling time . . .”
He sighs again—and this time, there’s real regret behind it. There’s also a soft look in his eyes as he reaches for me.
“As much as I’d love to have you read my mind or my palm or any other part of my body you take a fancy to, I’m going to be late for my flight,” he says. “No, don’t bother pretending you’re sad to see me go. You’ve been waiting all morning for me to leave so you can continue your investigation and make enemies of the villagers.”
“I beg your pardon. Not everyone in this village is my enemy.”
His response to that is a soft kiss pressed against the side of my neck. His breath is warm and his lips are delightful, but he stops himself before gently murmuring in my ear. “Not yet, Eleanor dear. But remember, you’ve only just moved here. Rome wasn’t brought to ruin in a day.”
He pulls away and drops a large bill to the table, pausing only to offer me a slight wave before disappearing through the door. Despite his blasé exit, I feel a pang at seeing him go. I need a Watson to my Sherlock, a Frank Hardy to my Nancy Drew. The great detectives always work in teams.
He’s right, you know, Winnie says. You have plenty of time to make enemies.
“Don’t you start with me,” I mutter. It’s bad enough having a gentleman suitor who thinks so little of my ability to be conciliatory. Winnie is supposed to love me unconditionally. That’s how ghost sisters work. “You probably already know who did it. The least you could do is give me a clue.”
As if on cue, a voice answers, “What’s that, m’dear?”
I turn to find General von Cleve sitting on one of the bar stools, nursing a half-empty glass and watching me with interest. Never one to overlook a gift potentially sent from beyond, I say, “Oh, nothing. I was just talking to myself. My date abandoned me for the sunny shores of Spain.... Would you mind if I joined you instead?”
He gestures to the empty seats on either side of him. “I’d be delighted. Catherine, get this lady a cider, would you?”
I think of the Haldwell twins and the man with the bathtub distillery and politely decline. “More tea will be fine, thanks.”
“Keeping up your energy, eh?” he asks. His smile, if he’s wearing one, is hidden behind an elaborate, swooping mustache that would have looked at home during the British Raj. In fact, almost everything about him calls to mind the questionable imperialist ambitions of ol
d. His short stature, puffed chest, and slightly bow-legged gait are out of place in this age of tanks and military satellites. “An enviable choice. Caffeine after noon always keeps me awake. If you want my advice, don’t ever grow old. The body loses its tolerance for vice.”
I’m pretty sure Vivian and her love of a good sherry—or twelve—would disagree with that, but I merely smile and say, “Oh, I rarely sleep when the moon is this close to full. There’s so much work to be done.”
“Well, now. Would that be the naked dancing I’ve been hearing so much about?”
I almost fall off the stool in my surprise. “Define so much.”
He laughs and takes a sip of his cider. “It’s a small village. Word gets around. Can’t say I’d recommend it this time of year, though. A mite chilly once the sun goes down.”
He can say that again. No way am I Lady Godiving around this place unless the thermostat is well into the seventies. “But, that’s half the power of it,” I say. “Human suffering is a potent force in our universe.”
Partially to change the subject and partially because it seems as good a segue as any, I add, “How are you holding up after the other night, by the way? I understand that you and Mrs. Blackthorne were close.”
Despite his benign appearance, the general is as sharp as they come. He casts me a shrewd look down the length of his nose. “Sure, you could say that. As close as a person could be to that old crow.”
I choke on my tea. The current state of fear in the village is such that several people start up, fearful lest I fall into a paroxysm right there in the middle of the pub. Gaining control, I manage, “You didn’t care for her?”
“Sarah Blackthorne was, without doubt, one of the most unpleasant people I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. And I was a POW in the Korean War, so that’s saying something.”
I can’t argue with that. “I had no idea so many people disliked her,” I say. “I always assumed she was one of the staples around here, but Mrs. Hartford said something along similar lines yesterday.”
The general snorts, sending the ends of his mustache billowing. “She would. Viv and Sarah were enemies for as long as the pair of them breathed the same air.”
“Really?” My purpose in instigating this conversation was to gain insight into Sarah’s death, but it seems I’m getting much more than that. I prop my chin on my hand in a show of casual interest. “But Vivian’s such an easygoing woman. The whole family is—getting a reaction out of them about anything requires a crowbar and mountains of patience. I know she’s not very hospitable, but that’s part of her charm, don’t you think?”
“If that’s what you find charming about her, then you’re stranger than most of the people around here suggest.” Even though the general’s words are gruff, his expression isn’t at all unkind. “But, no. They never got along. There’s only room in a village this size for one strong-willed and influential matriarch.”
“Mrs. Hartford didn’t kill her,” I say with a certainty I have no claim to. The first rule of any investigation is to keep an open mind, but I hold on to that certainty all the same. The only way Vivian Hartford would ever poison another human being is by serving them a casserole ten days gone. “She’d never do anything that obvious. Her revenge would be subtle and years in the making.”
“Who says it wasn’t?” the general mutters. He contradicts himself two seconds later by adding, “But if you’re looking for a sure thing, the fête planning committee’s your horse. Everyone and anyone who held a grudge against that woman was there that night—it’s half the reason I go every year.”
“Because you also held a grudge against her?” I ask.
He laughs and returns his attention to the cider. “Because it’s the only entertainment this blasted village has to offer. Last year, someone threw a knife at her head.”
I blink, startled. How is it that no one thought to mention this before?
“It was a butter knife, but that doesn’t matter. You’d be surprised how many body parts you can remove with cutlery. Even a spoon will do in a pinch.”
I’m tempted to ask for details, but I have the feeling the general has a much stronger stomach for that kind of thing than I do. “Does Inspector Piper know?” I ask instead.
The general chuffs out a sound that’s mostly annoyance. “Who can tell with that man? But I will say one thing, m’dear. Whoever killed that woman did the whole village a favor. If this thing doesn’t end in a ticker tape parade and a public holiday, I’ll eat my hat.”
As he’s wearing a tweed tam that looks as though it’s been in use since the Jacobite rebellion, I can only assume he means what he says.
I also make a renewed vow to be part of that ticker tape parade through any means necessary. I can hardly take credit for killing the woman, but I can do these people the favor of finding out who did.
Parades, holidays, an appreciative village buying my elixirs in bulk . . .
Why not? Stranger things have happened. I mean, if people are losing limbs to spoons, as the general suggests, stranger things are happening all the time.
Chapter 5
“The fête must go on.”
Annis pulls open the door to the vicarage with a wide smile, no element of surprise on her face. It says quite a bit about this woman that she finds nothing odd in having the village witch stop by for an afternoon chat.
“Hello to you, too, Ellie.” She steps back to allow me inside, her gesture as warm as the smile. I think there must be a rule about vicars wherein they have to let you inside no matter who you are—it’s like the opposite of vampires.
The vicarage is a huge, rambling home nestled next to the village church. Although the building is spacious, the rooms are small, dark, and cramped. From the look of it, the structure was built to house huge families in the days before birth control, all those dozens of happy kids crammed inside and lighting up the gloomy interior. As it is now, Annis makes do by hanging needlepoint and stacking pillows everywhere. Dark it may be, but there’s no denying it’s inviting.
So is Annis. She takes my shawl and hangs it on a nearby rack. “It’s a cold one today,” she says. “Not many people out and about, but I suspected you might stop by.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve gained the power of clairvoyance on top of everything else. I can barely pay my bills as it is.”
“Not clairvoyance. Just a good guess.” She leads me toward her office, the largest and grandest of all the rooms on the first floor. From the heavy wood wainscoting and butler’s pantry off to one side, I assume it was once the dining room, but it works much better this way. There’s a very confessional air about it. “You’re here about Mrs. Blackthorne, aren’t you?”
The problem with Annis is that she could, if she put her mind to it, run me out of business in three seconds flat. She does everything I do—reads people and offers comfort accordingly—but she does it for free. And without any of that dark magic stuff, either.
“Well, yes,” I admit. “I am here about Mrs. Blackthorne. More to the point, I’m here about the fête. I think we should keep going with the plans. It was her pet project, wasn’t it? She’d want us to finish what we started.”
“That’s a very kind and generous thing for you to say, seeing as how you barely knew the woman.” Annis points to the leather club chair sitting opposite her desk. I obligingly take a seat as she parks herself on the corner of her desk, one of her legs swinging like a gentle pendulum.
“In other words, you don’t believe a word of it?”
She laughs. “Well, no. Not really. But I’ll admit the sentiment is in the right place.”
“Even a broken psychic is right two times a day,” I quip. Before she can kindly disagree with my self-deprecation—a thing I know from experience she’ll do—I say, “The truth is, I’m sort of helping Inspector Piper with the investigation, and I think it’ll be good to have everyone in one room again.”
“Like a game of Clue? How exciting.”
Th
at’s another thing about Annis—she has the disconcerting ability to make me feel like the most ridiculous person in the world. She does it by agreeing with everything I say, accepting my most outlandish requests with a perfectly calm smile. And she means it, too, that’s the thing. Nicholas mocks me, Liam chides, and Rachel laughs outright . . . but Annis just earnestly accepts me as I am.
I’d hate her for it if I didn’t love her so much.
“People didn’t seem to care for Sarah much, did they?” I ask.
“No, they didn’t. But then, you’re not everyone’s cup of tea either, are you? It’s a good thing we all have different tastes.”
“Touché. Do you ever say a bad word about anyone?”
“Not if I can possibly help it.” She offers a serene smile and hops off her desk. “Annoying, aren’t I? If it makes you feel any better, I used to be a real ‘see you next Tuesday’ about it. The only thing worse than a prig is a prig who prattles on about how good she is.”
I choke.
“To be honest, I would like to continue planning the fête,” she continues, blithely disregarding my attempts to recover my equanimity. “The last thing this community needs is to be derailed by another devastating loss. Keeping busy would be good for all of us. Perhaps we could choose a charity dear to Mrs. Blackthorne’s heart and donate half the proceeds to it. That would be a nice gesture, don’t you think?”
Since no one has ever solicited my opinion on this topic before, I’m not sure how to answer. I’m not exactly known for my generosity. “Yes?”
“We’ll do that, then. Good thinking. Since it was your idea, I’ll put you in charge of choosing the charity.”
“Me?” I glance around, half expecting someone from the village to pop out and claim my unworthiness for such a heartfelt task. “But shouldn’t you ask one of her friends? Or her nephew? Nicholas and I were having lunch earlier, and he introduced me to someone named Lewis King. Apparently, he came on the early train from London.”
A moue purses her lips, a flash of distaste and nothing more. As was the case with Nicholas, the expression is gone as quickly as it came, almost as though it exists only in my imagination. But that makes two very calm, very unruffled people who have reacted negatively to that man.
