A Simple Country Killing

by Blythe Baker

  I shook my head. “Inspector Graves told me I wasn’t allowed to set foot outside of Brookminster.”

  “Well, of course, but the ordinary people of the village won’t know that,” Irene said. “It’s settled, then. We will put you up in our guest room until this whole thing blows over, yes?”

  Nathanial nodded. “I agree. I think it would be best.”

  5

  The next week was one of the worst I’d ever experienced.

  Irene had been right. Everyone was out for blood it seemed. My blood. Without evidence, and by word of mouth only, they assumed that I had, in fact, been the one to kill Mr. James.

  Irene wouldn’t let me work in the teahouse, even though I wanted to do something to help out. She thought it best to keep up the fiction that I had gone away. I did, however, overhear a conversation that she and Nathanial were having the third night I was staying with them.

  “Many people are utterly convinced that she is the one who did it,” Irene said with exasperation. “They say she may as well be a stranger, having moved to Brookminster so recently.”

  “Irene, hardly anyone around here knows her like we do,” Nathanial said in a reassuring tone. “In their mind, they want justice for a prominent figure in our town. Mr. James’s death is going to be felt a lot more deeply than that of a beggar, or a crotchety old woman that no one liked. He was one of the most prestigious people to ever live here. He loved everyone in this town, and was an example of his profession; compassionate, caring, and selfless. His loss will be felt, and deeply.”

  “I know you’re right,” Irene said. “But that doesn’t mean that Helen is to blame.”

  “No, it certainly does not,” Nathanial said. “But to everyone else, she was the one who had his blood on her hands.”

  I asked Irene the following morning if I could go out and fetch her groceries for her, but she shrieked at me. “No!” she cried. “No,” she said, a little more calmly, smiling. “We have everything we need for now. Besides, I’m not certain you would like to hear what – ”

  “What everyone in the village has to say, yes I know…” I said.

  Later that night, Nathanial informed me that someone had thrown a brick through one of my windows.

  My first instinct was to think to ask Sidney to help me repair it…and then with a curdling knot in my stomach, I realized all over again that Sidney had betrayed me, attempted to kill me…and I ended up taking his life in the end. I cried at the dinner table, which seemed to confuse poor Michael, requiring Irene to whisk me away from the table and sit with me in my room while I attempted to pull myself together.

  It wasn’t until the fifth day staying with the Driscolls that I realized I needed to really concentrate on finding the true killer.

  “I can’t live like this,” I said to Irene as we were having afternoon tea.

  Michael was playing out in the yard, the muddy puddles left after the morning rain presenting themselves as a perfect playground for the young lad. He seemed entirely content, which left Irene and I a chance to talk after the teahouse closed up for the day.

  “What do you mean?” Irene asked.

  “I can’t keep living like I am guilty,” I said. “I would greatly like to go back to my own home, get some clean clothing, and just be able to walk outside. I haven’t left this house in five days…”

  Irene’s face fell. “I am sorry, dear. I wish there was something more I could do. It’s just…I’ve heard how the people in the village are taking it. Unfortunately, nothing else remotely interesting has happened this week, and it seems to be all anyone can talk about…”

  I glared at a knot in the wooden table. “I’m going to miss the funeral, at this rate,” I said.

  “You won’t unless the autopsy is finished rather quickly,” she said. “And from what I’ve heard, the police weren’t able to discern anything from it so far.”

  I shook my head, my hands grasping the teacup. “I need to find who did this,” I said. “It might be the only way to clear my name.”

  “Sam didn’t have any other leads?” Irene asked.

  I shook my head again. “No,” I said. “Not that first night, at least. And he hasn’t called to let me know of any. Unless he doesn’t know that I’ve been staying here – ”

  “I let him know,” Irene said. “I thought it might be better than you telling him.”

  I clamped my mouth shut after that.

  “When Mr. James was…well, when he was still conscious…” Irene said. “Didn’t it seem like he was trying to tell you who had killed him? Perhaps we can try to discern it from that.”

  I shook my head. “It was…cryptic, at best. I can’t even be sure he wasn’t hallucinating, or out of his mind.”

  “Perhaps,” Irene said. “Regardless, what did he say, exactly? Can you remember?”

  I pursed my lips, thinking. “Well, it was definitely a ‘he’,” I said. “And it seemed like he was angry at Mr. James.”

  “So there was a falling out of some sort before he died,” Irene said, frowning at the table. “Hmm…I wonder…”

  “What?” I asked. “Do you know something?”

  “There’s certainly no way to be certain, but there has been a rumor going around town for some time about Mr. James’ youngest daughter, Rachel. She walked away from her father’s faith when she was younger, running away with someone to London, only to come back six months later with her heart broken.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said, my brow furrowing. “I had no idea he had any children.”

  “They’re all grown by now,” Irene said. “He and his wife had three children, I believe. Their oldest daughter, Rebecca, is happily married with some children of her own, living in Tuffley, south of Gloucester. I have seen them in church every few weeks, when they come to visit. Their middle, a son named Daniel, lives in the village here as well, though he has been in Oxford studying at the seminary to follow in his father’s footsteps. I wonder if he will be the one to take his father’s place at the church here in the village…”

  “And the youngest daughter?” I asked. “Rachel, you said?”

  “Yes,” Irene said. “She is quite the handful, from what I’ve heard. She can’t be older than twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six by now. Last I heard, she had taken a fancy to a mechanic here in town, but her parents did not approve of the relationship.”

  My eyes widened. “Who might this mechanic be?” I asked. “Do you think this might be the sort of lead I should follow up on?”

  Irene pursed her lips for a moment. “To be honest, starting with the James family may not be the worst idea…” she said. “Though you might have a difficult time speaking with them if they know who you are, and that you are being investigated for the murder of their father…”

  “What about this mechanic, though?” I asked. “He likely wouldn’t know me, especially if things never went anywhere between him and Rachel.”

  Irene slowly nodded her head. “I imagine he wouldn’t be paying as close attention to the whole ordeal as Rachel would be.”

  “Then maybe I should go and see him,” I said. “If he does anything the least bit suspicious, I could – ”

  “Who is doing something suspicious?”

  Nathanial had wandered into the kitchen. He glanced back and forth between Irene and me, his face scrutinizing.

  “We think we may have found a suspect,” I said. “At least, right now it’s the best lead I have.”

  “I see,” Nathanial said, walking past us to the ice box.

  “Do you know anything about the mechanic that Mr. James’ daughter was interested in?” I asked Nathanial. “What is his name, Irene?”

  “Oh, I’m not certain of his name,” Irene said, her face turning pink. She had averted her eyes, and seemed far more interested in the tabletop suddenly than her husband who she usually beamed at whenever he walked into the room.

  Nathanial, too, suddenly seemed rather cool, his eyes glued to the side of the ice box
that he had just pulled some milk from.

  I stared at Nathanial for a long moment, hoping he might answer me.

  “I don’t know,” he said, an edge to his words. He pulled open the ice box and deposited the milk back inside, not bothering to drink any of it. “Aren’t you wasting your time, chasing rumors?”

  I glared at him. “What else do I have to go on?”

  He wouldn’t look me in the eye, and didn’t seem to have an answer to my question.

  A nasty suspicion rose up within me, making my ears warm. “You…you actually think I did it…don’t you, Nathanial?”

  That made him look at me. In that moment, I saw something that I never really expected to ever see.

  Doubt.

  “No,” he said a second too late. “I don’t think you – ”

  “Yes you do,” I said, slowly getting to my feet. “You think that I killed Mr. James.”

  “Helen, please,” Irene said. “He certainly does not believe that. Nathanial, you don’t believe that.”

  “I already said I didn’t,” he said. “I thought I made that clear.”

  “You hesitated,” I said, my eyes narrowing.

  “How can you expect me to answer that sort of weighted question so quickly?” he asked, his voice beginning to rise.

  “Easily, I think,” I said, my own voice rising to match his. “I didn’t realize that you thought so little of me – ”

  “Helen,” Irene said in an icy tone. “You should watch the level of your voice. Both of you should.”

  I wheeled around and looked at her, my heart hammering against my ribs. “And what about you?” I asked. “Do you think I killed him, too?”

  “Absolutely not,” Irene said, her brow furrowing together. “How could you ask such a thing?”

  “Your husband seems to doubt me enough,” I said.

  “I already said I didn’t – ” Nathanial said.

  “You didn’t have to,” I said, turning and glaring at him. “Your expression said everything that you weren’t brave enough to say.”

  “Helen, really,” Irene snapped. “I understand you’re upset about all this, but taking it out on us is just – ”

  “You are completely missing Nathanial’s response,” I said, gesturing over to him. I turned and glared at him again. “Who did you speak with? Mr. Hodgins? Did his account seem more believable than mine, someone who only just got here a few months ago?”

  Nathanial’s eyes widened. “You…overheard that?”

  “That was our private conversation,” Irene snapped, going to stand beside her husband. “I’m surprised at you, Helen. Do you not trust us?”

  “I’m…” I started, looking back and forth between the two of them.

  I didn’t have anything else to say, so I turned on my heel and stomped off toward the guest room, my ears ringing as I went.

  I slammed the door behind me, not even caring about the sound that must have echoed all the way through the house. As soon as I slumped against the wooden frame, I burst into tears, sliding down the wall, all the way to the floor.

  My life was falling apart around me, and there was nothing I could do to set things right. All I could do was wallow in my own self pity, taking solace in the four walls of the small room I called my own.

  6

  The knots in my stomach never did leave me for the rest of the night. Nor would my mind rest long enough to allow me to sleep. I tossed and turned, unable to reconcile myself to what had happened with Nathanial and Irene.

  I couldn’t bring myself to get up and apologize to them in person. For some reason, my pride insisted that they should be the ones to apologize to me for the way they had so terribly treated me…especially Nathanial. How could he think that I had killed Mr. James? What had I done since meeting him that would make him question my honesty and integrity, even for a moment?

  I heard them retire to bed around ten that evening, and still all I could do was lay there and stare up at the ceiling. Everything felt wrong inside of me. There was no peace for my heart, and already struggling with the fear and sorrow of Mr. James’ death, I found myself piling on the guilt now with Irene and Nathanial.

  In the end, around two in the morning, I had to admit to myself that I was the one in the wrong.

  Nathanial only has my word to go off of, I thought bitterly and reluctantly. Given the fact I showed up at their house almost a week ago now covered in a dead man’s blood, I need to give him the benefit of the doubt that something incredibly strange must be happening here.

  I wondered what Roger would think if he knew about this whole situation. Given my suspicions that he was the one following me, watching me from the shadows, I wondered if he already knew the rumors going around…and whether or not he believed them in the first place.

  I finally dragged myself out of bed just before five in the morning, knowing that sleep was just not going to come. I needed to make things right, and I realized there was really only one way to do so.

  I slowly made my way down to the teashop, careful not to disturb the household. I set my suitcase, all packed up, down beside the hostess table. There I found a pad of paper that Irene used to mark down seating order for guests, along with a few pens. Plucking one from the table, I tore a piece of paper from the pad and wandered over to the nearest table, sitting down.

  In the dim light spilling in from the street lamp outside, I wrote the letter I’d been forming in my mind since a few hours before.

  Dear Irene and Nathanial,

  First of all, I want to apologize for my behavior last night. I let my anger at the whole situation get the better of me, and must admit to feeling a bit like a rabbit caught in a trap. This ordeal has me frightened, and while I know there are many in the village who don’t believe I am innocent, to hear a dear friend hesitate was a shock.

  I am sorry for getting as upset as I did, and for acting out in your home that way. You both have been so kind to me, offering me sanctuary during this difficult time in my life. I am undeserving of your hospitality, and realize that by my actions last night, I have negated my ability to stay with you any longer. I would not feel right imposing on you any further, especially given the situation I put us all into last night.

  I will not cause you any more harm, and will instead try to find out who this person was that so thoughtlessly took Mr. James’ life.

  Thank you for all your love and care, and for opening your home to me, despite all of the accusations. I am truly grateful.

  With all my love,

  Helen Lightholder

  I read it over a few times to make sure that my exhausted mind had written something relatively coherent. Pleased that it seemed to be clear, I folded it up and set it beside the till in the back, where I knew Irene would see it as she prepared to open the teahouse for the day.

  With a heavy sigh, I picked up my suitcase and headed for the door, determined not to make a sound that would draw their attention from upstairs.

  It had been six days since I’d been outside on High Street. Granted, the last time I’d been out there, I had left the police station, covered in blood, wondering how in the world I was going to make it through the rest of the day.

  While my circumstances had hardly changed since then, I found my anger as good a source for my determination as anything else I had felt up to that point.

  I had one goal in mind, and that was hopefully going to be easy enough to meet. I needed to find the mechanic that Irene had mentioned, and see if he knew anything about Mr. James…or tried to deny knowing him in the first place.

  That was what pushed me to be able to open the front door of my cottage, to be able to stare at the broken window with some semblance of sanity, and be able step inside without caring whether or not someone was going to come to call and complain or make trouble for me.

  I knew that going out in public was going to do nothing for me. If anything, people would refuse to help me, given the fact that I was the lead suspect for the case in the
first place.

  So I decided to attempt the next best thing, and make some calls around the village.

  Sidney hadn’t left me entirely without knowledge. Whether or not he had known it at the time, some of his tricks had passed to me. His accent, for example. I never teased him about it much, but I always liked the sound of it. And learning that he was not, in fact, Scottish in the end, it helped me to realize that I, too, could probably learn how to use an accent to some successful degree.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the first number I could think of that wasn’t Irene.

  Mrs. Georgianna.

  The phone rang a few times, but being elderly like she was, I knew that she must have already been awake, milling about her house, likely readying herself for some social event she would probably be attending that evening.

  “Hello?” she asked finally when she answered the phone.

  “Yes, hello, is this Mrs. Georgianna?” I asked, attempting my best Scottish accent. It was rather poor, but I did my best to say the words in the same way Sidney would have.

  “Yes, it is, but who is this?” she asked. “I don’t recognize your voice.”

  “We haven’t met yet,” I said. “I’m Gwen’s cousin. From the north?”

  “Gwen?” Mrs. Georgianna said. “Gwen who?”

  My face flushed. I had been hoping that she would just accept any name and go along with it, perhaps out of politeness. Maybe she still would. “Gwen Thomas. Oh come now, you are all she speaks about. She says you have such exquisite taste, and are always the talk of all the parties in the village…”

  “Oh, well, yes, I suppose I am,” Mrs. Georgianna said with a little chuckle.

  It seemed that Sidney was right about another thing; a little flattery went a long way.

  “Well, what can I do for you, Miss…?”

  “Miss Thomas as well, ma’am. Francine Thomas. Well, my dear cousin instructed me to call you, insisting that you would surely be the best one to help me with my problem,” I said. I felt my accent slipping a few times as I tried to rush through the words, and had to force myself to slow down so as to not upset the charade.