We descended into the park and set off down a path worn through the grasses, past towering beech and yew trees. To the right of us, I could hear the burbling of the river, though it was shielded from our sight by a thicker band of trees. The air was crisp with the scents of decaying leaves and sun-warmed dew.
I noticed that Reg had fallen silent, but perhaps that was because he was concentrating on his other senses, trying to orient himself to where we were. Though he utilized a walking stick to tap the ground in front of him, for the most part he trusted me to guide him around any ruts or roots. Only once did he balk at my tug on his arm, having recognized before I had that the earth grew boggy on that side of the path, and I swiftly corrected.
“How much farther is it?” I turned to ask the footman walking behind us. Opal had said she’d found Mr. Green a few yards to the right of the path, near a copse of hawthorn trees.
“I’m not sure, ma’am,” he replied uncertainly.
I nodded, recognizing the fact that most of the household servants would have little reason to venture in this direction.
“It shouldn’t be far,” Reg murmured. He lifted his head, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun. “The river turns to the north just before the copse the maid seemed to be speaking of. If you listen, you can hear that it’s grown fainter.”
I tilted my head. “You’re right.” Glancing about me, I surveyed the ancient parkland, wondering what, or who, had drawn Mr. Green into this part of the estate. No one was currently doing any hunting here, and this land certainly wasn’t cultivated. I was about to ask Reg his opinion of the matter when I spotted him.
“There he is,” I murmured, pointing toward a patch of lawn about fifty feet from the path.
Reg’s jaw tightened, but other than that there was no discernable reaction to the tension in my voice.
We approached slowly, our footsteps crunching through the leaves strewn across the grass. Mr. Green lay on his side, turned toward the river with his knees drawn up toward his chest. About three feet away from the body, I released Reg’s arm and began to circle it. One look at the face told me what had so upset Opal, for his eyes were wide open, seemingly frozen in agony. Though death had stolen his muscles’ rigidity, the roundness of his eyes, the position of his legs, even the manner in which his hands seemed to grasp at his chest all seemed to point to the fact that he had died a terrible death.
CHAPTER 7
By the time the local police arrived, the lonely glade had gathered half a dozen spectators. A fact that did not please the local detective inspector when he approached with his constable as Miles led the way. He brushed past the butler, taking but a brief notice of the pair of footmen and the kitchen lad gawking beside them, before scowling at me and Reg, as well as Mr. Plank, who stood just beyond my shoulder.
“Stand back, if you please,” he ordered.
I took hold of Reg’s arm, as much as to provide a united front as to prevent him from tripping as we backed up half a dozen steps. Apparently, this was not enough to satisfy the inspector, for he scowled.
Miles shook his head as if in disapproval of such a shocking thing happening under his authority, and turned to herd the younger footman and the kitchen lad with a stern word back to the manor.
“We’re certain of the identity?” the inspector asked as he knelt to examine the corpse. His constable remained at a distance, taking a notebook and pencil from his pocket.
Never having officially met Mr. Green, I turned to Mr. Plank, who took his cue. “Aye, it’s Mr. Green, all right.”
“Aye, I recognize him,” he replied.
I frowned. Then why had he asked?
From his graying hair and the stern lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, I estimated he was about forty-five years of age—which made him a contemporary of Mr. Green. His height combined with his barrel chest easily marked him the largest man present. Something I suspected he was accustomed to.
The inspector swept a precursory glance over the body, and then he pushed to his feet.
“We couldn’t find any evident signs of injury, but of course, we didn’t move the body,” I supplied.
His gaze brushed up and down my frame much as it had the corpse. “And yet you trampled over possible evidence.”
I arched a single eyebrow imperiously. “We had to ascertain he was, in fact, dead, did we not?” In truth, the body had been cold to the touch, suggesting he had lain there for at least several hours. “Besides, I stepped carefully.” I nodded at his bulky boots and then lifted my daintier one in illustration. “I certainly didn’t disturb anything more than you have.”
Mr. Plank chuckled under his breath, but it was to Reg that the inspector’s eyes snapped. My cousin’s pursed lips did almost nothing to hide the smile lingering there.
“Who is this woman?” the inspector demanded, his disregard for Reg apparent.
A vee formed between Reg’s brows. “Why, don’t you recognize her, Titcomb?” he retorted, making it evident he wasn’t going to overlook the fact that the inspector hadn’t addressed him correctly by returning the insult. “This is my cousin, Mrs. Verity Kent.”
The constable, who until this point had merely given us cursory notice, fumbled the notebook clutched in his hands, nearly dropping it. His cheeks reddened as his gaze riveted on me and then darted away.
The stony expression on Inspector Titcomb’s face never wavered. “They might do things differently up in London, but here in Wiltshire we don’t need help from the likes of some society darling.” With this derisive snarl, he turned his back on me to bark at his constable. “Jones! Search the area.”
“About fifty yards west of here, I believe you’ll find it significant that the ground is disturbed,” I supplied.
Titcomb turned his head to observe me.
“As if someone has been digging.” I allowed the implication to hang. A poor attempt to conceal evidence of some kind, perhaps?
“I’m sure we’ll come to it in due time,” he replied, dismissing me again.
I scowled. “We also noted there is an item clutched in Mr. Green’s left hand. Though I didn’t dare ‘disturb’ the body further, so I can’t tell you precisely what it is, but it looks to be metal. And it was undoubtedly valuable, at least to him, judging from the fact he held on to it so tightly.”
If ever I’d seen someone’s hackles visibly rise, it was then. His shoulders hunched and the muscles of his thick neck seemed to ripple with irritation above the collar of his coat.
“You’ve done it now,” Mr. Plank leaned closer to murmur. “More than like, ’e was gonna pocket that trinket. But now ’e can’t, cause ye called attention to it in front o’ all these witnesses.”
I turned to him in shock, particularly astonished that he’d seemed to deliberately pitch his voice low, but not low enough that Titcomb couldn’t hear him.
The inspector turned to glare at him, but Mr. Plank merely grinned.
“Sir Reginald,” he growled to my cousin. “Kindly remove your cousin and this doddering old man from the glade. This is a police matter.” He turned to the footman. “You can stay, if you plan to be of help. Keep a sharp eye out for my police surgeon.”
I stiffened in affront at the manner in which he’d spoken of the stablemaster, but Mr. Plank cackled with amusement. “Aye, aye. Keep yer trousers on, Paul. I’m a goin’.” Witnessing my evident confusion, he smiled even brighter. “’E’s my nephew.”
My eyes widened as I compared his shriveled, bow-legged form to that of the burly inspector.
He cackled even louder. “Aye, takes after his da’, ’e does.” He puffed out his chest. “Though I wasn’t always such a scrawny gaffer. Might be more Plank blood in ’im than it seems. He certainly got his brains from his mum.”
The corner of Titcomb’s mouth twitched upward as he observed his uncle’s preening, infinitesimally softening his otherwise steely exterior, but he shook his head in response and turned away.
“Come on, Ver,�
�� Reg coaxed. “There’s nothing more for us to do here, and Mother’s certain to be working herself into a flap waiting for us to return.”
I allowed myself to be led away, knowing he was right. From all appearances, this was a natural, if painful death. There were no obvious wounds, no evidence of physical trauma. There was always the possibility such injuries were located on the left side of the corpse, beyond our sight without disturbing the body, but given the lack of blood pool it seemed doubtful, unless he’d suffered a fatal blow to one of his internal organs. The only trace of visible blood was a small smear at the back of his neck, barely visible above his collar, and that seemed more like a nick from shaving than anything else. All other indications were that Mr. Green had simply died of a heart attack or an apoplectic seizure, or perhaps some unknown medical complication from the war—a blood clot or a burrowing piece of shrapnel piercing a vital organ.
Yet, something about the nature of the man’s death bothered me, though I couldn’t place my finger on the precise reason why. Undeniably, the location was odd. Why had Mr. Green come to the west park in the wee hours of the night? What was he doing? Was he responsible for the disturbed earth we’d found? Had he been digging for something? But then, where was his shovel and lantern?
And what of the position of his body? It seemed a strange way to collapse, whether he was struggling toward help or had simply fallen down dead. It was almost as if his body had slowly frozen into that agonized position.
As such, I’d briefly considered poison as an option, but there was no evidence of vomiting, either on the body or within the twenty-foot radius we had searched. Of course, poison didn’t always mean retching, but there were also no other signs—no blisters or strange striations, no swelling or pupil dilations.
Whatever the case, this was a matter for the police. I had no further justification for interfering. No one had requested my assistance in the matter. If there was even a matter to pursue. I was heartened by the fact the police seemed to be taking the matter seriously, but perhaps they did so with all suspicious deaths until proven otherwise. So, as long as they proved to be competent, I had no call to interfere.
I studied Mr. Plank out of the corner of my eye as he hobbled along just beyond my right shoulder. “Mr. Plank, you implied your nephew has brains. Does that mean he’s a good policeman?”
“Oh, aye,” he assured me in his creaky voice. “He’s a hard man, ’e is. And I chalk that up to his da’. He was meaner than a weasel in a chicken coop. But me sister—’is mum—raised ’im straight. He’s an honest one, and there’s no doubt ’e’s good at his job. So long as. . .”
I turned my head to regard him as he seemed to waver from what he was about to say.
He lifted his cap, swiping a hand over his forelock as he grimaced. “Well, so long as he doesn’t view ye as feeble in some way.”
I felt Reg stiffen beside me, recognizing now why Mr. Plank had hesitated to speak.
“There’s still enough of a bully in ’im from his da’, and a fear o’ frailty to make ’im cringe at any show o’ weakness.”
“What of Mr. Green? Would your nephew have viewed him as feeble?” I asked, turning the conversation away from Reg.
He shook his head. “Nay, not after the war.” He frowned. “Unless . . .” He shook his head. “Nay, ’e respected Mr. Green.”
“But I bet he didn’t approve of him allowing his wife to publicly harangue him,” Reg said, wondering aloud the same thing I did.
Mr. Plank remained uncharacteristically silent, but the furrow in his brow answered for him.
Regardless of Titcomb’s opinion of the Greens, if the death proved to be murder it was obvious who the main suspect would be. After all, Mrs. Green had been seen shrieking at her husband and attempting to strike him just the day before by several dozen witnesses. I was curious how she would take the news when she learned of her husband’s passing. Who would tell her?
It seemed I was to have the answer to those questions sooner rather than later, for Mrs. Green suddenly appeared in the distance at the edge of the ha-ha. She paced left and right, and then gathered her skirts in her hands, preparing to jump down when Miss Musselwhite reached her side. Grabbing her arms, she spun her about to plead with her, but Mrs. Green yanked her arms away, stumbling back a step before righting herself. She pressed a hand to her head and then staggered forward again, half stepping and half falling over the three-foot dip of the ha-ha.
Fumbling upright, Mrs. Green charged toward us, her thin figure swathed in a faded blue gown. The silk flowers in her hat were worn and ragged, much as the face beneath it. I suspected she had been handsome once, but time, worry, and drink had prematurely aged her. “My husband. Have you seen my husband?” she demanded of us, bowling forward as if she meant to knock us down if we stood in her way.
“Tilly, stop,” her sister begged, pressing her hand to the white cap covering her golden hair lest it fly away.
Reg stepped forward as she bore nearer, his hands lifting as if to prevent her from plowing into him. “Mrs. Green, please stop. We have news of your husband.”
She abruptly halted. “Where is he? W-where’s my husband?” Her voice shook and her paper-thin hands trembled as she gripped Reg’s sleeves. “Tell me.”
Reg’s gaze flitted blankly over her head. “Perhaps your sister should—”
“Tell me!” she yelled, her face white with the effort. She panted, scouring his shocked face, and then began to back away, as if unnerved by the fact his gaze couldn’t focus on her. Her sunken and hollow eyes darted to her left, and finding me staring directly back at her, she lunged toward me. “Tell me,” she entreated.
“Tilly . . .” Miss Musselwhite started to interrupt, but I decided Mrs. Green deserved the truth. Had our situations been reversed, I would have wanted to know. In any case, her response could be revealing.
“Mrs. Green, you husband is dead,” I told her as gently as I could.
The dark depths of her eyes quivered with desperation. “No,” she rasped, the word sounding ripped from her throat.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s true.”
“No,” she repeated a little louder, and then a little louder and a little louder, until she collapsed against her sister with a keening wail.
Miss Musselwhite struggled for a moment to keep her upright, gathering her close and murmuring sounds of sympathy as her sister wept into the crisp collar of her gown. “How?” she asked me, her own tearful eyes stark with grief.
I shook my head, unable to answer her, and unwilling to share my speculations.
How much Miss Musselwhite might have apprehended I didn’t know, but her eyes shone with an intelligence that made me suspect she missed very little.
Her sister inhaled a ragged breath, stammering between sobs. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”
Miss Musselwhite stared down at her and then back at me, alarm flashing in her eyes. “Tilly, there’s no need to . . .”
“I told him I wished he was dead. Last night before he left. It . . . it was the last thing I ever said to him. But I didn’t mean it. Oh, God, I didn’t mean it!” Her body was wracked by a shuddering sob. “He just wouldn’t let go of—”
“Tilly, hush!” Having recovered from her shock, Miss Musselwhite cut her off there. “You are not to say anything more. Not one word,” she reiterated, shaking her. “Do you hear me?”
Her sister’s stern tone seemed to penetrate through Mrs. Green’s haze of grief for she nodded meekly.
Mrs. Green might not recognize what a predicament she was in, but her sister did, and spewing confessions about having wished her husband dead just hours before he expired would only hurt her if the worst should prove true—that her husband was murdered.
“The police have taken charge of the body,” Reg told them, which elicited a whimper from Mrs. Green.
Miss Musselwhite nodded. “Then perhaps I should return my sister to her home. The children will need to be told
.”
“Yes, that’s probably for the best,” Reg replied reservedly.
She pleaded with the stablemaster. “Mr. Plank, if you wouldn’t mind assisting me.”
“O’ course,” he murmured, springing forward. Between the two of them, they managed to bundle Mrs. Green away.
I threaded my arm through Reg’s as he stood silently with puckered brow, listening to them depart. “What are you thinking?” I asked him once I could be certain my voice wouldn’t carry to them.
He turned his head. “Just that Inspector Titcomb is going to want to speak with her. And how fortuitous it is she made that outburst to us and not him.”
“Yes.” I contemplated their parting figures. “It doesn’t mean she’s guilty of anything, of course. But it certainly wasn’t complimentary.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
A buzzing noise in the distance made me swivel to look back in the direction where the body lay, scanning the sky for the aeroplane that was making it. A sudden thought occurred to me. “RAF Froxfield borders the estate to the northwest, correct?”
“Yes, along a narrow expanse of the river.”
“Hmmm,” I hummed distractedly, narrowing my eyes as if I could peer through the canopy of brilliant autumn hues.
“I know that tone of voice,” Reg replied. “What notion is wriggling around in that brain of yours?”
“Only that I wonder if it’s a coincidence,” I said lightly, deciding it wouldn’t do to draw too fine a point on it. Especially when I didn’t know if it actually mattered. But there were two ways of entering the west park, and Opal had mentioned seeing someone in the distance and, thinking it was Mr. Green, followed them. We now knew that person couldn’t have been Mr. Green, for he’d expired hours earlier. So whom had Opal seen?
In any event, I was sure Inspector Titcomb would question her about it. I had no business butting in, regardless of my insatiable curiosity and fluttering instincts.
A Pretty Deceit Page 9
