House of Lies

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  Margaret’s eyes grew big, her lips paled. ‘My husband will know if you start asking questions about me.’

  ‘Be assured your husband will be none the wiser. I’ll be discreet.’

  Margaret hesitated.

  ‘You’re going to have to trust me, Margaret. I’m trusting you. This has to work two ways.’

  Margaret sighed. ‘I really don’t have much of a choice. I cannot go back to sleeping outside.’

  ‘More tea?’ Cat picked up the teapot. As she stood to refill Margaret’s cup, her engagement ring came untucked, swinging across the table like a pendulum. Margaret reached out and grabbed the heavy gold band.

  ‘Are you engaged?’ She held the ring fast, surveying the fine gold with Thomas’s promise of eternal love engraved on the inside.

  ‘I am.’ Cat pried the ring out of Margaret’s fingers, hiding it away again under her jumper.

  ‘Why ever would you hide such a beautiful ring? Doesn’t it fit?’

  Cat took the chain from around her neck. She undid the clasp and slipped the ring on her finger.

  ‘It looks like an heirloom. Is it old?’

  ‘It is,’ Cat said. She stood and collected the dishes from the table. ‘It belonged to my fiancé’s mother.’

  ‘How come you keep it tucked out of sight?’ Margaret gave Cat a sheepish smile. ‘No prying. I understand. I’ll just get busy on these dishes.’ She took Bede’s apron off the hook and tied it around her waist. ‘Thank you, Mrs Carlisle. I am afraid I will owe you a debt of gratitude.’

  ***

  Cat had spent the majority of her adult life in London, with access to shops, cafés, and a house full of servants to deal with stocking the larder, preparing food, and tending to the day-to-day household chores. The outbreak of war and the move to the country had opened Cat’s eyes to the endless tasks needed to keep a household running smoothly. She had lived in Rivenby for over a year now and since that time had come to appreciate the way chores were aligned with the seasons. Spring was for cleaning and planting, summer for growing, autumn for harvesting and planting the next round of vegetables, while winter was a time of rest and hibernation. A perfect circle.

  Leaving Margaret to do the dishes, Cat headed out into the morning chill towards the garden shed, her mind worrying over the veracity of Margaret’s story. Donning her gloves, she raked the vegetable bed, mixing in the mulch they had ordered specially. By springtime, the bed would be rich and fertile and ready for the vegetables they started in the greenhouse. As she worked, she thought of her upcoming marriage. Thoughts of Thomas distracted her so thoroughly, she didn’t see the man sneaking out from behind the greenhouse, a shovel slung over one shoulder. Like a perfect predator, he paused for a moment, staying just outside Cat’s line of vision, until she squatted down with her back to him, vulnerable and unable to defend herself.

  Cat didn’t sense his presence. Out of the blue, she felt a strong hand on her back, followed by a hard push, which sent her sprawling onto her stomach into the dirt.

  Adrenalin coursed through Cat’s body as she landed. She turned on her back and met the eyes of a short, wiry man, with a lined face and angry eyes. He towered above her, brandishing the shovel. By the look on his face, Cat could tell he enjoyed his dominant position. Forcing herself to stay calm, she took a deep breath. ‘Mr Grenville, I presume.’

  ‘We’re going to have a little talk about my wife,’ Mr Grenville said. ‘Get up.’ He offered Cat his hand.

  She ignored it and stood up on her own, grabbing the hand trowel as she did so.

  The manoeuvre wasn’t lost on Mr Grenville. He gave Cat a smirk and slung the shovel over his shoulder again.

  ‘Get off my property,’ Cat said. She was a good three inches taller than Mr Grenville. She bit back her fear, keeping her voice strong. ‘The police are looking for you in connection with a murder. Someone inside the house will see you and call them.’

  ‘Not true, Mrs Carlisle. You’ve got your housekeeper in there, but she’s weak and old. I’d say that I’m safe from her. Surely you didn’t think I’d approach you without evaluating the situation.’ He stepped closer, once again brandishing the shovel like a weapon in an effort to intimidate. ‘And I didn’t kill that girl.’

  Cat took a step closer to him. ‘Get away from me.’

  ‘You’ve got spunk, I’ll give you that. You just tell me what you’ve done with my wife, and I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘No. My singular purpose in life is to keep women like your wife away from men like you.’ Cat regretted the taunt immediately as Mr Grenville’s placid, semi-amused look became one of anger. He circled Cat, like a boxer in the ring. Having no choice but to reciprocate, Cat countered his every move. They mimicked each other, like two dancers in a violent tango. Over Mr Grenville’s shoulder, she saw Bede Turner’s startled face in the window.

  Please, Bede, get help.

  Mr Grenville attempted to step closer to Cat. In perfect pantomime, Cat stepped away. She eyed the house. Could she make a dash for safety?

  ‘You can’t outrun me, Mrs Carlisle. And I don’t know what my wife told you, but we were happy together. I was good to her.’

  Cat laughed. ‘Hardly. She hated you. Couldn’t wait to get away.’ Cat should have noticed the twitch in Michael Grenville’s left eye, the portent of his rage. ‘She’s rather a fine lady. Not surprising considering her wealth. Her wealth, Mr Grenville. Not yours. No, you won’t be finding her. She’s safely tucked away, safe from your influence, enjoying all her lovely money.’

  ‘She loved me,’ Michael Grenville insisted.

  ‘You beat her,’ Cat said. ‘I saw the bruises.’

  ‘Only when she needed it. A man needs to take his woman in hand. Maybe I should give you a beating right now. Teach you a lesson.’ He leered at her. ‘It’d serve you right and ain’t nothing you can do about it.’

  Cat knew women often cowered around their aggressive husbands. But she hadn’t flinched when her husband – now long dead, thank the heavens – threatened. Benton had been tall and strong, and every bit as angry as Michael Grenville, but Cat had never backed down. Familiar hot rage ran through her. She stepped close to Michael Grenville and pushed him hard on the shoulders. He didn’t have enough time to react. His eyes opened wide as he stumbled and landed on his backside.

  ‘Get away from her,’ Bede Turner shouted, as she strode towards them.

  Michael Grenville scrambled into a standing position and held up his hands. ‘You’ve won this round, Mrs Carlisle, but I’ll be back. You can be sure of that.’

  Cat moved nearer to Bede, who pointed a shotgun at Mr Grenville. ‘I won’t mind shooting you.’ To make her point, Bede pointed the gun in the air. Cat covered her eyes just as Bede fired. Michael Grenville turned and walked in the direction of the woods.

  Keeping her gun pointed at Michael Grenville’s disappearing form, Bede shouted, ‘Get to the house. I’ll shoot him if he follows.’

  Once they were in the kitchen, Bede slammed the door and locked it.

  ‘We need to check all the doors and windows,’ Bede said. ‘I’ll take upstairs. You do down here.’ Bede propped the shotgun over her shoulder and headed upstairs, spry as a teenager. Cat hurried through the bottom floor of the house, heart pounding as she fumbled with the windows and doors, doubling checking they were properly locked. Not wanting to be alone, she followed Bede upstairs. Once both women were in Cat’s bedroom, she shut the door and locked it, her breath coming in short, hard gasps.

  Bede stood at the window. ‘I can see him on the road.’

  Cat hurried to the window. Standing next to Bede, she watched Michael Grenville hurry down the lane towards the high street.

  ‘We should call the police,’ Bede said.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ Cat said. ‘He told me so.’

  The tears came unbidden. Cat wiped them with the back of her hand as she looked at Bede, her eyes imploring. ‘I can’t do this anymore. I can’t protect these women and us
by myself.’

  Bede put a comforting arm around Cat’s shoulders. ‘It’s all right, love. You don’t have to. Mr Charles will help you. He’ll keep us safe. I’ll just go and call him.’

  Something deep inside Cat shifted, tempering her reckless courage with a healthy measure of fear.

  ***

  Thomas manoeuvred around a lorry overladen with bales of hay, while DCI Kent distracted himself with the scant file they had on Lucy Bardwell. The mysterious return of the chalice and the feeling that things were in play around him over which he had no knowledge or control caused Thomas concern. At the back of his mind, he wondered if Michael Grenville was orchestrating some scheme to get the chalice back. Beck, eager to see that no one took the chalice again, had taken to sleeping near the safe, his shotgun and his Webley service pistol at the ready. The next person who broke into Heart’s Desire would have a surprise waiting for them. Thomas decided to trust Beck’s security measures, for there was nothing else to be done about it.

  Back at the constabulary, a select group of constables focused on pinning down Lucy’s time of death and tracing her activities before she was murdered. A trusted few had been told that Michael Grenville may be involved in Lucy Bardwell’s murder. Specifically instructing these men to search for evidence of Michael Grenville, or anyone affiliated with him, DCI Kent had managed to investigate Grenville without jeopardizing Saint Monica’s. Thomas took a deep breath as he manoeuvred around another lorry, this one towing a horse box. In another mile, they would be on the main road to Much Killham, where they would interview George Hinks’s wife.

  ‘I know you think Hinks is innocent, Thomas. Let’s assume you’re correct for a moment. If Hinks didn’t kill Lucy, who did?’

  ‘Michael Grenville,’ Thomas said. ‘He’s the logical suspect. The resemblance between Lucy Bardwell and his wife is remarkable.’

  DCI Kent shook his head. ‘I don’t think Grenville would kill the wrong woman.’

  ‘So if it’s not Grenville and it’s not Hinks, who? The brother?’

  DCI Kent shook his head. ‘Not likely. He telephoned to apologise for his behaviour towards us. Not that he needed to. I just don’t see him killing anyone, not after his experiences in the war. In any event, he claims to have been participating in an injured veteran’s support group at a hospital in Hendleigh. Says he was there for three days under constant supervision. I have a constable verifying his alibi.’

  Thomas thought for a moment. ‘Lucy Bardwell was a pretty girl. Her friends say she was a bit wild. I am interested to know who else she spent time with when she wasn’t with George Hinks. She may well have had another lover. Maybe she jilted him, and he didn’t like being tossed aside. I admit that I’m surprised that such an attractive young girl would be interested in the likes of George Hinks, but I’ve learned not to question the motives of young women.’

  ‘Hinks may not have been totally honest with her,’ DCI Kent said. ‘Maybe he led her to believe he was well-to-do, had money from an inheritance or something of that nature.’

  ‘Lucy Bardwell would like that,’ Thomas said. ‘She seems the type who would appreciate a man with a nice bank account.’

  ‘Agreed.’ DCI Kent unfolded a map and read it quickly. ‘Take the next left. We’re looking for the last cottage on the right.’

  The car slowed as they drove past a row of detached cottages, most of them with sections of lawn converted to vegetable gardens. Rosebud Cottage, with its bright red door and windowsills, stood out among the others. Thomas was surprised to find George Hinks’s house – a lazy man if there ever was one – was so well tended. The garden was three times as big as the others along the lane. A large pile of freshly raked leaves was nestled against the stone barrier wall. Six apple trees had been recently plucked of fruit, their leaves turning a pleasant shade of red and yellow. Furls of smoke wafted out of the chimney, completing the storybook scene. Curious now, Thomas wondered about George Hinks’s wife, for he was certain this image of bucolic bliss had little to do with George Hinks, a philandering ne’er-do-well, if ever there was one.

  ‘This should be interesting,’ DCI Kent said to Thomas before he got out of the car and headed up to the front door.

  Thomas followed him up a cobbled pathway. A woman with a strong jawline and vivid blue eyes opened the door before they had a chance to knock. She was dressed in country tweeds, and a gold cross hung from a chain around her neck.

  She cocked her head, giving them a curious look, as though she were waiting for someone else. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘DCI Kent. Rivenby Constabulary.’ DCI Kent showed his identification. ‘This is Thomas Charles. May we come in?’

  ‘Is it George? What’s he done? Is he dead?’ Vera Hinks’s hand went to the cross.

  ‘He’s very much alive. We just need to speak with you.’

  Vera stepped aside. ‘Come in. I’m preserving today. Do you mind if we speak in the kitchen?’

  ‘Of course not,’ DCI Kent said.

  Vera Hinks was an attractive woman. Her ruddy cheeks spoke of physical strength and time spent outdoors. Her kitchen, as Thomas expected, was immaculately turned out. Rows of gleaming jars sat ready to be filled, with piles of peeled and sliced apples ready to go into the boiling pot. The whole scenario reminded Thomas of his own childhood, and the apple butter his mother used to make every autumn. But his mother’s kitchen was nothing like Vera Hinks’s. Thomas remembered his childhood kitchen as one of charming clutter, unlike this orderly kitchen, with everything lined up like so many rows of soldiers. Unfortunately for Vera Hinks, Thomas and DCI Kent were about to introduce chaos into her organised life.

  ‘Have a seat.’ She pointed to an old-fashioned pine table, the scars and scratches on its top a testimony to the kitchen as heart of the household. ‘Tea?’

  Thomas would have killed for a cup, but DCI Kent gave his head a small, nearly undetectable shake.

  ‘No, thank you. Mrs Hinks, would you mind sitting down.’

  Vera set the kettle down and turned to face them, a worried expression in her eyes. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Did you notice your husband didn’t come home last night?’ DCI Kent said.

  She sat down across from Thomas. ‘No. I didn’t. He stays at a friend’s house in Hendleigh most of the time. When he’s here, we have separate rooms …’ Her voice trailed off. She removed her glasses, revealing dark crescents under intelligent eyes. Her right hand, calloused and roughened from time spent gardening, reached once again for the cross hanging around her neck. She fondled it, a worried expression on her face. ‘Why are you here? What’s happened?’

  DCI Kent hesitated before he pulled a snapshot of Lucy Bardwell out of his jacket pocket. The picture flattered Lucy, accentuating her thick dark hair and her bright smile. He placed it on the table and pushed it towards Vera. ‘Have you ever seen this girl before?’

  Vera put her glasses back on and stared at the picture. Seconds ticked by. Vera rubbed the picture with one of her fingers and mumbled what sounded like a prayer.

  ‘Have you seen this woman before?’ DCI Kent repeated.

  ‘No. Wait. Is this the girl whose picture was in the newspaper? The girl that was murdered in Rivenby?’

  ‘I’m afraid she is.’ DCI Kent took the picture and put it back in his pocket. ‘Mrs Hinks, I am afraid your husband was involved with this young woman.’

  Vera Hinks, who had been staring at her lap, gave DCI Kent a stricken look. ‘Involved?’ Her voice broke when she uttered the word. ‘She was one of his – one of his – oh my god.’ Vera Hinks pushed away from the table and with a choking sob, ran from the room. Neither Thomas nor DCI Kent spoke after she left. They listened to Vera’s quiet sobs, which were eventually replaced by the sound of running water. After a few minutes, Vera joined them, her eyes red from crying.

  ‘I’m sorry. George is not – has never been – a faithful husband.’ She pulled the picture of Lucy Bardwell closer to her. ‘But I had no idea
he was involved with this girl.’ DCI Kent didn’t speak. Vera stared at him. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

  DCI Kent cleared his throat. Thomas did not envy him this task. ‘She was pregnant.’

  Vera Hinks’s face blanched as the blood drained away. Thinking she was about to faint, Thomas leaned forward in his chair, ready to rush to her should the need arise. She turned the picture over, so it was face down on the table. ‘That poor girl. You don’t think George killed her, do you?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mrs Hinks. Was George here on the morning of October 7th?’

  Vera sighed and shook her head. ‘I can’t say for sure. I don’t think so. Like I said, when he’s here, we’re in separate rooms.’ For the first time, Vera turned her attention to Thomas. ‘My husband is a coward. He can’t stand the sight of blood, can’t even bear it when I clean a chicken. I don’t know if that helps, but it’s the truth. There’s no love lost between my husband and me, but he’s no killer.’ Vera Hinks stood. ‘And now I’d like to lie down.’

  DCI Kent and Thomas both stood.

  ‘We may need to speak to you again,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I understand.’

  Vera Hinks ushered them out the front door, slamming it shut and locking it behind them. They didn’t speak until they were well away from Rosebud Cottage.

  ‘Interesting,’ DCI Kent said. ‘The first thing she asks is if her husband is dead.’

  ‘Wishful thinking perhaps? She’s hiding something,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Like what, Tom? She’s a simple countrywoman, religious, devoted to her husband. Along we come with questions about a girl who was not only murdered, but who was involved with her husband, and who was in all likelihood carrying her husband’s child. That’s enough to make anyone react strangely. I’ll have to talk to her again, probably at the constabulary. If she’s hiding something, I’ll find out what it is,’ DCI Kent said.

  Thomas didn’t doubt it.