by Blythe Baker
She took a sharp turn, and I hurried to catch up with her. Was she heading home?
Or perhaps she was heading to Mr. Fenton’s house?
I was surprised when she turned down Ivy Street, and soon after, headed toward the teahouse.
My heart skipped. This was both a wonderful opportunity, as well as a frightening happenstance.
I hurried inside, my eyes scanning the room.
Miss Harmon’s bright pink was distinct among the other patrons, as she walked up to Irene, who was standing at one of the tables, clearing away the dirty teacups and crumbed plates.
“I would like a table near the window,” Miss Harmon said.
Irene looked at her, her eyes widening. “You’re welcome to one,” Irene said. “You may sit wherever there is a free table.”
Miss Harmon tossed her black hair over her shoulder, and strutted over to a table in front of the window.
I made eye contact with Irene, and nodded toward the kitchen.
She started toward it at the same time I did, and we met together just inside the swinging door.
“What’s the matter?” Irene asked. “You look troubled.”
“That woman who just came in? In the pink coat?” I asked.
“Tessa Harmon, yes,” Irene said. “What’s the matter? What happened?”
My gaze darted back toward Tessa, who brushed her dark hair from her eyes, her smirk set firmly in place.
“Come with me,” I said, grabbing Irene by the elbow and ushering her toward the kitchen.
I was grateful that she didn’t pester me too much before we were safely hidden behind the swinging door. The air smelled of cinnamon and vanilla bean, which would have tempted me into asking her what she was making, but I resisted, my mind already scolding me about my distractions.
“I found Mrs. Lowell’s sweetheart,” I said in a rushed whisper.
“You what?” Irene asked, her brow furrowing. She folded her arms, and I noticed a streak of icing along her forearm. “Helen, I can’t believe you’re still trying to involve yourself in all this. I’m starting to think you have a death wish, or that you’ve simply lost your mind because of the grief you are feeling after losing Roger – ”
“No, listen to me,” I said, laying a hand on her arm, stopping her in mid-sentence. “I really don’t think it was him. He’s not the type. Owns a bookshop, really nervous, all that. But the woman who just walked in, that Tessa? I think she is in love with him.”
“With Mrs. Lowell’s secret lover?” Irene asked, now interested.
I nodded. “I just saw her with him. If she had it her way, she would have been over the counter and all over him.”
“What did he do?” Irene asked.
“It was clear he was trying to be kind,” I said. “But he wasn’t at all interested, not in the least. And the strangest part was that Tessa complained about people talking about Mrs. Lowell so much, as if she was still alive and just a nuisance.”
“Really?” Irene asked. She frowned, rubbing her cheek in thought. “Well, even I must admit that she is not the nicest woman in town. Very narcissistic, with nothing more than contempt for anything that doesn’t have to do with her…but to fall in love with a book seller? I imagined she would have sought after some sort of businessman in London…”
“It surprised me as well,” I said. “He is quite good looking, I suppose, but not the sort of man that women would typically fight over.”
I turned and pushed open the door to the restaurant, locating Tessa easily in her pink.
My eyes widened when I realized there was another woman sitting at the table, someone with as much flamboyance as she seemed to have.
“Someone’s with her,” I said.
Irene moved to the door, and I ducked down so she could peer out over the top of my head.
“That’s Madeline Woods. She’s quite the piece of work, if I may say so.”
“How so?” I asked.
“She’s a terrible gossip,” Irene said. “Very plainly nice when she speaks with you, but then will twist your words and utterly humiliate you to whomever she decides to speak with next.” She shook her head, sighing. “I must admit, she is perfect company for Tessa Harmon.”
The women seemed happy enough, chattering away, their heads bent toward one another, their lips peeled back in troubling smiles, as if exchanging the darkest of secrets.
My nerves steeled. “I need to hear what they’re talking about.”
“What?” Irene asked. “Why?”
“What if they’re talking about Mr. Fenton?” I asked. “The bookshop owner,” I added, seeing the confused look on Irene’s face. “What if she is somehow responsible for what happened to Mrs. Lowell?”
Irene’s brow wrinkled with worry, and she bit down on the inside of her lip. “I suppose it’s possible,” she said.
We agreed then to take turns heading out and serving the women. I knew that Tessa wouldn’t recognize me, as I was almost certain that she wouldn’t have seen me in the bookshop. I decided to be extra cautious, though, by tying my hair back and borrowing some of Irene’s deep red lipstick to give myself a quick change of appearance.
Wearing a freshly laundered apron and with notebook in hand, I pasted a smile on and wandered out into the dining area, Irene following close behind me.
I wandered over to the table where the women were sitting, still bending their heads together, the clear glee on their faces making my stomach twist into knots.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” I said, approaching them. “How are we doing?”
The scathing look that Tessa gave me sent chills down my spine. She gave me a very clear, deliberate look up and down, the condescension clear on her face.
“We’ll have some tea,” Tessa said. “That is what this place serves, right?”
“Of course,” I said, my false smile still in place. “Would either of you care for any tea cakes, biscuits, or sandw – ”
“Did we ask for any of those?” asked Madeline Woods, arching an eyebrow, her deep green eyes surrounded in a smoky black eyeliner.
“No, but I was not certain that you knew what we offered here – ” I said.
“Bring us the tea,” Tessa snapped. “Now, would be preferable.”
I flipped the notebook shut and turned, still smiling, and started back off toward the kitchens.
“Did you hear anything?” Irene asked as we passed by one another.
“No,” I said. “See what you can find out.”
I made my way into the kitchen and began to prepare their tea, tapping my fingers impatiently upon the counter as I waited.
Irene stepped back inside the kitchen just as I was pouring the tea from the kettle on the stove into one of the ornate pots that Irene liked to serve it with. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks pale.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I managed to overhear just a little of their conversation,” Irene said, reaching for a napkin rolled up and tucked in the basket beside the door, ready for a new table. She dabbed at her forehead, staring at something in the distance. “You were right about her feelings for that bookshop owner. Mr. Fenton was his name, correct?”
I nodded as I pulled two matching teacups from the shelf where Irene and Nathanial kept them all, ready for guest use. “Yes, Fenton. She admitted as much?”
She nodded as well, swallowing hard as if something was stuck in her throat. “More than that, she seems quite pleased that Mrs. Lowell is out of the way now.”
“What did she say exactly?” I asked.
Irene’s lips pursed, and she exhaled sharply through her nose. “With that Abigail out of the way now, nothing is standing between Mr. Fenton and I. Isn’t that wonderful? We can finally be together…if only he would see it, too.”
I frowned. “I understand being in love with someone, but to be so utterly dismissive of poor Mrs. Lowell?”
“That’s what I thought, such a lack of remorse…” Irene said. “And Miss Woods d
id nothing but encourage her, assuring her that he would come around eventually, no man could resist such a lovely, persistent woman.”
I folded my arms. “Well, that’s not much of a surprise,” I said. “Given what you said about her character. And if they really are friends, which they clearly seem to be, why wouldn’t she encourage her friend in her love affairs?”
“I suppose,” Irene said.
The door to the kitchen swung open, and Nathanial strolled in.
“Irene, I – ” he said, and his eyes swept through the room, falling first upon his wife, and then the next second upon me. “Oh, hello, Helen.”
“Sweetheart, what are you doing home already?” Irene asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. “You said you wouldn’t be home for another three hours.”
Worry creased Nathanial’s face. “Yes, well…I heard some news that I thought you might want to be aware of. You as well, Helen.”
The skin on my neck prickled. “What sort of news?”
He reached for a newspaper he’d tucked beneath his arm. Setting it on the counter, he spread it open wide.
A blurry photograph of what looked like a prison was on the front page, along with the title, CASE CLOSED; THE MURDERS OF BROOKSMINSTER PUT TO BED AT LAST.
“You both may want to read that article,” Nathanial said. “It seems some anonymous source has claimed that all the murders that have happened in the village are related.”
9
“This writer claims that all of the murders in Brookminster are related somehow?” I asked, leaning over the paper with Irene, who was quickly scanning the words.
“Seems that way,” Nathanial said. “Go ahead and read it.”
The writer was rather long winded, giving a lengthy history of the dark deeds that apparently had occurred in Brookminster over the last one hundred years, describing the town as perfect on the surface, but dark and rotten on the inside.
The heart of the article, though, was a complete shock…and something that I would never have expected.
“I must admit, I’m confused,” I said, looking up at Irene and Nathanial. “This writer thinks that Mrs. Lowell’s killing, as well as the killing of all the others in town in the last few months…were because of a prison camp outside of town?”
Nathanial leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “We all know that isn’t true, but we still don’t know who killed Mrs. Lowell, do we?”
“Where is this camp?” I asked. “I’ve never even heard of it.”
“There aren’t many outside of Brookminster that do know about it,” Irene said, giving her husband a nervous look. “It’s on a farm to the north of here, certainly far enough away from the town, and heavily guarded, no less.”
“And this is where what sort of prisoners reside?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.
“Well…” Nathanial said, shifting uncomfortably. “During the war, it seems they’ve been keeping German prisoners of war there.”
My jaw dropped open. “They’re keeping Germans…here?” I asked.
“It’s far enough removed from the bigger cities that they aren’t a safety concern,” Nathanial said. “And if they were to escape, they wouldn’t get far before someone more familiar with the area would be able to catch up with them.”
“But what about Brookminster?” I asked. “What about our safety?”
“Helen, dear, it is safe,” Irene said. “They have all been put to work under heavy guard, farming the land. The food they dig up is sent to our troops, and they are paying for their crimes against – ”
“Farming seems far too easy,” I said. “These men have killed our soldiers, dropped bombs on our cities – ”
“I know,” Nathanial said. “I know,” he said again, more gently. “But they really are under heavy guard. And none of the soldiers have ever tried to escape. I would know. I’ve been there, and asked around.”
“Been there?” I asked. “Why?”
“His brother is one of the guards,” Irene said.
“I see,” I said.
“Who is this writer?” Irene asked, pointing to the newspaper lying on the counter. “They’re claiming that one of the Germans did escape, and they were the ones responsible for Mrs. Lowell’s death.”
Nathanial picked up the paper, examining the article once again. “I’m not certain; it says it is anonymous. But we can easily dismiss the whole article as nonsense, since we all know very well that an escaped German soldier was not the one who killed anyone else that has died here recently.”
“Can we dismiss it so readily, though?” Irene asked. “The war is escalating, and I imagine that camp is becoming full. When was the last time you saw your brother? A month ago? Perhaps two?”
Nathanial scratched his chin. “I cannot imagine things would have changed so drastically there in that short amount of time,” he said.
“So you are saying it is impossible for a prisoner to escape?” I asked.
“Well, perhaps not impossible,” Nathanial said. “But certainly very difficult, given the guards are all armed and trained as well.”
I said, “What if a prisoner did manage to escape, entered the village for whatever reason, possibly to steal supplies, and had a violent encounter with Mrs. Lowell, maybe because she caught him in the act of stealing? What if he killed her and then disappeared? Meanwhile, nobody up at the prison camp has even noticed he is gone.”
“That seems like a stretch, dear,” Irene said, but she looked up at Nathanial. “Though, I must admit…I, too, have wondered if it has been guarded enough these last few months. Your brother and the others must be getting so utterly tired of the work they do…and I know I’m not alone in this worry. Many others in town have expressed concern about it as well.”
“But none of these soldiers could possibly have been the killer,” Nathanial said to his wife. “We already know who killed Helen’s aunt, as well as the beggar. We know who they were, and the incidents weren’t related at all.”
“Can we rule anything out at this point, though?” I asked. “Some soldiers can be incredibly skilled. Many of them are trained to be spies, to withstand torture. How can we be utterly certain that one of these hasn’t used their incredible training to do just like the writer said?”
Nathanial sighed. “I suppose anything is possible, isn’t it?” he asked. “But in truth, we have no idea who the writer is.”
“Clearly someone the publishers at the newspaper thought highly enough of to add it to the morning post,” Irene said. “With a sizable article on the front page, no less.”
“I’m not one to trust writers for the post, just because their article was published,” Nathanial said. “Not these days.”
“Well, I know one person who we could speak with to get all of this cleared up,” I said. “Sam Graves would certainly know something about it.”
“That he likely would,” Nathanial said. “He might be the best one to bring this to. I’m certain he’s seen the article. The police are all likely in an uproar today, trying to calm any concerned townsfolk who inevitably will have dropped by the station demanding answers.”
Irene looked over at me, like a mother scolding a child. “You want to go and tell him about Mr. Fenton and Miss Harmon, don’t you?” she asked.
Nathanial’s face became concerned, and he straightened up. “Mr. Fenton? What about him?”
“You were right about him. He is apparently the man who was attempting to woo Mrs. Lowell,” Irene said.
My eyes widened. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you…he wasn’t just trying to woo her, Irene. He had planned to propose. He had the ring and everything.”
“Mr. Fenton was the Mr. Smith that Evangeline was talking about after all?” Nathanial asked. He shook his head. “When you described him, I could hardly believe a man like him would have ever been able to pursue someone like Mrs. Lowell.”
“He seemed perfectly harmless,” I said. “Perhaps a bit accident prone, just as you said, but it’s qu
ite clear he has a good, gentle heart.”
“That he does,” Nathanial said. “A bit of a coward, though.”
“I wondered about that myself,” I said. “I think he believes he waited too long to let Mrs. Lowell know how he felt.”
“How tragic,” Irene said. “Not only had Abigail managed to find love again after her husband died, but then before anything could ever come of it, she passed away.”
“I’m saddened for poor Mr. Fenton,” I said. “He is the one who has to now live with the reality of her death…and he wants nothing more than to be able to do something for Evangeline, but doesn’t feel as if it is his place.”
“But I don’t understand why you mentioned Tessa Harmon,” Nathanial said, his brow furrowing. “What does she have to do with any of this?”
Irene and I glanced at one another. I certainly wasn’t one for gossip, but something was not sitting right about that woman and her attitude toward the deceased.
“She seems to be in love with Mr. Fenton as well,” Irene answered for me. “Making this whole ordeal just a bit more complicated, it seems.”
“Another suspect, then?” Nathanial asked.
“I suppose so,” Irene said. She looked over at me. “I take it you’re going to take all of this to Inspector Graves?”
“I suppose I should,” I said. “He might not even know that Mr. Fenton had another admirer.”
“While I can’t imagine that anyone like Tessa would ever be able to do something like take someone’s life, I certainly wouldn’t rule out her utter dislike of poor Abigail Lowell.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said.
I glanced toward the door, and back at the tea I’d poured into the teapot nearly a quarter of an hour before.
“Speaking of Miss Harmon, I suppose I should get their tea out to them,” I said. “Before they decide to go and spread terrible rumors about your teahouse’s lack of service.”
I remade the tea and hurried it out to the ladies, who surprisingly hadn’t even noticed I’d been gone.
“Just set it down and shoo,” Tessa said, glowering up at me. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a conversation?”
