Murder Most Fair

by Anna Lee Huber

  I turned away as we passed the distinctive sign hanging over its door, even though I had few memories of the dark interior of the inn with its high-backed settles and scarred oak tables, and the perpetual game of dominoes being played by some of the older locals in the back corner. Rather, all my remembrances were of the limestone gorge beyond it into which the waterfall, Hardraw Force, tumbled. I could clearly recall my brothers splashing in it one early autumn day. I’d decided then that I was too old to join in, but I’d perched on a rock a safe distance from the water, laughing and calling out encouragement of their antics. The September air had been chilly that day, nipping at my nose, and the cold water made them shriek like little girls, which had only made it all the more comical.

  It had been the last time we were all together—my brothers and I. The following morning Freddy had left to return to medical school to finish his courses in order to be able to join the Royal Army Medical Corps, and the day after that Rob had departed for training with the Royal Flying Corps. A week later I was on my way to London to prepare for my wedding to Sidney. Tim had returned to school, leaving Grace, our younger sister, the only one still at home.

  Wetness burned the back of my eyes as I wondered if any of us had realized then how significant that moment would be. Had any of us known it would be our last adventure together?

  I forced myself to take deep even breaths, blinking against the glare of the sun reflected in the side mirror as Sidney gunned the engine and accelerated away from the village. The stone buildings lining the road grew sparser, and I could spy the hulk of Great Shunner Fell towering in the distance away to the north. My muscles tensed, for I knew it wouldn’t be long now. We passed the turning that would have taken us back south toward Hawes, and I could see the bend of the River Ure and then the village laid out before us in the valley below. Beyond rose Wether Fell and Dodd Fell like the two shoulder muscles of a giant lying on his stomach, with the spine meandering between and the head naught but a blue swell in the distance.

  Brock House itself was hidden from the road by a copse of oak and downy birch trees where we had often played as children. Sidney turned the Pierce-Arrow onto the dirt drive that wound between the trees for about thirty yards before it approached a narrow stone bridge that straddled a small brook. On the other side, the lane wound up the hill to the sprawling three-story gray stone house perched on a flat expanse at the base of a higher ridge.

  I scrutinized everything with eager, but wary eyes, finding it somewhat disconcerting that nothing had changed. So much had altered in the last five years, and yet here it appeared as if time had stood still. The trees were still gnarled and twisted in the same way, their thick, deep roots anchoring them against the wind. The puddles along the drive, which never seemed to dry completely, were still filled with stagnant muddy water. The same dark weathered patch of slate adorned the roof. Even the same bluebell-printed curtains hung in the sitting room window of the structure we called “the cottage.”

  Sidney looked at me in concern as the motorcar rolled to a stop and he set the brake, but I knew if I looked at him, the emotion lodged in the back of my throat would break free. So instead I forced myself to focus on the familiar cracks and crevices of the low stone wall that enclosed the front courtyard and the house beyond as I opened my door and gingerly stepped out into the dirt.

  The smell that struck me was almost enough to send me scrambling back inside. The scents of grass and earth and wind—the crispness and clarity of it filling my lungs as if I’d merely been taking shallow sips of it before. And that indefinable odor that could only be described as home. It was the smell I’d woken to every morning and lain down with every night until five years ago when I had moved to London and wed Sidney, but it was still lodged in my brain somewhere, and it flooded my body with sensations and memories I would rather have ignored.

  I stood stock-still, my knees shaking as I warred with myself. I wasn’t used to this feeling of uncertainty, of incapacity. I had confronted so many horrifying things as an intelligence agent that I’d believed nothing could ever unnerve me to that degree again. And yet here I stood, petrified and overwhelmed merely by the prospect of facing my family again, of braving this place where I had grown up.

  The only thing that saved me from retreat was the sound of excited barking, which rang out from within the courtyard. Seconds later a black-and-white body came hurtling through the open gate toward me. I leaned over to greet the jubilant border collie, fussing over her and scratching her ears, grateful she’d given me something else to focus on as the sound of my father’s firm, measured footsteps approached.

  “My goodness, what a sweet girl you are,” I praised the dog. “You’ve grown so strong and pretty. Tabitha must be, what, seven years old now?” I asked, lifting my eyes to my father for the first time.

  He stood tall and straight in his perpetual tweed coat and flat cap, his feet planted wide in their boots. “About,” he answered in his quiet, gravelly voice.

  I glanced beyond him toward the gate. “Where’s Samson?” I gave Tabitha’s ears another scratch. “Is he being lax in his duties, old girl?”

  “Samson died.”

  I slowly straightened before inanely murmuring, “Oh.” I felt a bit foolish that I hadn’t suspected as much. He had already been ancient when I left. “How long?”

  “About a year.” His steady gray eyes scrutinized me. “He made it to a ripe old age.”

  I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes, he did.”

  He turned his head to gaze off toward the east. “Metcalfe has a new litter of collies, and I’ve already spoken for one of the males.” He looked down at Tabitha fondly. “Won’t be long until the old girl has a puppy to whip into shape for us.”

  My lips curled into an attempt at a smile. Releasing my hold on the dog, I moved the final few steps closer to him to greet him properly. “Father,” I said simply, arching up on my toes to kiss his rough cheek.

  “It’s good to see you, Verity,” he murmured, resting the back of his hand against my cheek.

  This close I could see he sported a few new wrinkles and a few new gray hairs. I’d wished to see signs of change, of the passage of time, and here it was wrought on my father’s face and in Samson’s death. Father still stood straight backed and undaunted, like the same solid, indestructible figure I’d thought him to be when I was a child. But I now knew that was only an illusion. In time, that would change, too.

  He turned to greet Tante Ilse, whom Sidney had been helping from the motorcar, and I wrapped my arms around myself against the chill breeze and wandered closer to the low wall, peering over it into the front courtyard. The rowan trees that had broken through the cobbles in the corner and now provided welcome shade in the summer months were all but stripped of their leaves, allowing me to see the stone house beyond. Tabitha kept pace with me, as if sensing I needed her undemanding company, and I rested a hand briefly against her head in acknowledgment.

  There was a movement out of the corner of my eye, and I turned to see my older brother Freddy emerge from the inner courtyard and turn toward the gate. He checked his stride, sensing me watching him, and then veered in my direction. Dressed in comfortable gentleman’s attire, his brown hair ruffling in the wind, he was the picture of a country doctor. “And the prodigal sister returns,” he jested, coming to a stop on the other side and resting his arms on top of the wall.

  “Ha ha,” I retorted dryly.

  His eyes crinkled in a grin before they swept down over my chic Parisian blue traveling ensemble and landed on my two-tone Oxford pumps. “You look good, Ver. Though I hope you remembered your boots.”

  “Of course. I’ve only been away for five years, not lost my senses.” I nodded in the direction he’d come. “Are you and Rachel staying in the cottage?”

  “Temporarily. Our house needed some improvements.” His right eyebrow quirked. “Mother believes it was heavenly intervention, as now we can all enjoy a bit of family togetherness.”

/>   “While you and Rachel merely wished to have running water and flushing commodes?” I guessed.

  “Something like that.”

  Brock House essentially comprised a large rectangle enclosed by a stone barrier with four gates, one facing in each direction. The southwest corner boasted what we called the outer courtyard, with a gate at either end of the long L-shaped low wall that bounded it. Brock House proper took up the largest part of the rectangle, starting in the northwest corner and extending into the other quadrants. The kitchen and servant quarters were located in a long single-story offshoot of the house in the north-east corner. Though technically not part of the same building, being separated by a small kitchen garden and connected by a recently enclosed walkway, at one time they had been, so everyone continued to describe them as such.

  Across the inner courtyard from the servants’ quarters in the far southeast corner stood “the cottage,” a small building that boasted a sitting room and bath on the first floor and two bedrooms above. It was the ideal guest accommodation for Freddy and Rachel and their baby, Ruth, being inside the barrier and close to the house, but separated by stone walls so that Mother didn’t have to be wakened by Ruth’s crying at night. A covered walkway connected the cottage to the billiards room at the corner of the house, but still allowed ease of movement between the outer and inner courtyards.

  To the east of the servants’ quarters, outside the wall, stood the barn and old carriage house, as well as a number of outbuildings. The buildings that composed the working farm portion of my father’s estate stood down the road a short distance, downwind of the house. But the barn and outbuildings near the house still boasted a handful of animals, which mainly supplied Brock House’s needs. A cow or two for milking, chickens, maybe a pig or goat, and horses.

  “Hullo, Freddy,” Sidney said, offering him his hand over the wall as he joined us. “How’s the life of a country surgeon treating you?”

  His lips creased into a tight smile. “It suits me. And what of you? Society man turned war hero and investigator.”

  “Yes, well, let’s not dredge up all the war-hero nonsense, shall we,” he replied, as ever uncomfortable with the honor that had been bestowed upon him when he’d recently received his Victoria Cross.

  Freddy nodded, his hazel eyes reflecting understanding. He glanced over his shoulder toward the front door, which was opening. “But be forewarned. Mother is likely to bring it up every chance she can get. You’re to be her showpiece for the neighbors.” His gaze flitted to mine and then back, and I could already guess what Mother’s addendum had been to such a sentiment. Sidney was her compensation for having such a brazen, unfeeling daughter.

  We all turned at the sounds of a second motorcar lumbering up the drive behind us. It was no surprise Sidney’s Pierce-Arrow had left the older vehicle my father had sent to the station to help collect our luggage in the dust, but father’s chauffeur, Sidney’s valet Nimble, and Tante Ilse’s maid Bauer had still made good time. I turned to see the motorcar continue on down the lane toward the outbuildings and the servants’ entrance, catching a glimpse of the German maid’s wide eyes staring out at us. I didn’t think it was the house that awed and alarmed her—or not entirely, for Tante Ilse’s home in Germany had been as large—but perhaps its remoteness and the realization that there must be a great many other servants. English servants.

  But I had little space in my thoughts to spare for her or my great-aunt. Not when I was struggling with my own trepidation, especially as the voice I was most apprehensive to hear rang out over the wall.

  “Why are you all hovering about the courtyard and talking over walls,” Mother hollered from the open door to Brock House. “Come inside.” Then she disappeared through the double doorway, expecting us all to follow.

  I knew then that my mother did not intend to make this homecoming easy. She was angry at me for staying away so long, and now that she finally had me here, she was not going to make peace easily.

  Sidney cast me an empathetic look as I heaved a sigh, taking my arm to escort me inside while Father assisted Tante Ilse. Tabitha trotted along behind us.

  The entry boasted the same worn but gleaming wooden floors and carved staircase. From the scents of linseed oil and beeswax still lingering in the air, I could tell they’d recently been given a polish. Only the plants on the entry table ever seemed to change, rotating with the seasons. Today the silver vase was filled with some herbs from the garden and colorful autumn foliage.

  I allowed Tante Ilse to greet Mother first, which gave me some time to compose myself. I stripped off my gloves and hat, passing them to Abbott, my parents’ butler, with a smile of greeting.

  “You look well,” I told him softly.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kent. And might I say the same of you.”

  If he felt any hostility toward me for staying away so long, he didn’t let it show, but Abbott had always possessed a remarkable poker face. As he was one of my mother’s chief allies among the household, I knew better than to presume he might feel any sympathy toward me, but I still viewed the fact that his disdain wasn’t evident as a good sign.

  I turned toward the mirror to fluff my curls and then waited for Tante Ilse to finish thanking Mother for welcoming her into their home. This was not simple gratitude and politeness, but also a calculated gesture on my great-aunt’s part. She knew that while her nephew—my father—had the final say, things would all go more peaceably if Mother accepted the situation.

  I studied Mother’s face as she spoke, the new lines that time had wrought on her skin, and the sagging that had begun around her neck and jawline. Her brown hair was swept into its usual style, but it sported more streaks of gray than before. Dressed in a burgundy-and-black plaid silk blouse with black cuffs, and a black woolen skirt, she appeared as distinguished as ever, her posture and comportment impeccable. She presented a decorous, but not altogether welcoming picture.

  When her gaze finally lifted to mine, I felt again like I was eight years old, standing before her for inspection before church service on Sunday morning. No matter how hard I’d tried, there had always been at least one correction to be made, if not to my attire, then to my hair or my expression, or some infraction in my behavior that week. I wasn’t sure at what age I’d realized I was never going to be perfect enough for my mother’s exacting measures, and that I didn’t care to be, but I’d soon given up on trying to meet them. Though, by the quiver of longing I felt in my breast even now, I recognized I’d never completely squashed my desire for her approval.

  “Verity,” she stated measuredly.

  “Mother.”

  “So you came.”

  “Yes.”

  Her hazel eyes flickered as she scrutinized my features. She lifted her hand to my face, but didn’t quite touch it. “Well, it’s good to see that London’s depravities don’t seem to have damaged your beauty. Yet.”

  And there it was. I felt my heart plummet in my chest, even as I forced a flat smile.

  She sighed. “But I do wish you hadn’t cut your beautiful hair.”

  I’d been expecting this comment, knowing my mother well enough to realize she would hate the new fad for bobbing one’s hair. But the last part about her proclaiming my hair beautiful was new. In all my life, I couldn’t recall her ever saying so. It was always too thick or too unruly and unmanageable, the auburn shade too garish. Never beautiful.

  “I like it, Mother.”

  “Yes, but it was so long and lovely. This is much too . . . boyish.”

  “Oh, tosh!” Tante Ilse exclaimed, making me wonder where she had picked up such an expression. “The young will always have fads that those of us who are older will not understand. And as far as Verity ever looking boyish, well, she has too much Rickenberg in her blood for that.” She was referring to my curvaceous figure, which obviously came from my father’s side of the family, given my mother’s slim angularity. She looked over her shoulder to twinkle at my husband. “And I’m sure Sidney would a
gree.”

  Sidney’s eyes crinkled with gentle laughter at her having pulled him into the matter. “No, I would never mistake Verity for a boy.”

  “That’s not exactly what I said,” Mother replied in a brittle voice, but, grasping the audience was against her, moved on. “Sidney, dear, how good to see you,” she declared in a warmer voice. “We were all so proud to hear of your medal.” She threaded her arm through his, trapping him against her side and forcing him to escort her into the drawing room to the left of the entry. “Though why you didn’t wish to take part in the ceremony on Armistice Day, I do not understand.”

  Her voice faded away as Tante Ilse took hold of my elbow. “Do not let her bother you,” she murmured confidingly. “She struggles with what to say as much as you do.”

  I turned to her in question, but my father stood at the drawing room doors, waiting for us to precede him, so I kept the query to myself.

  The drawing room was ever as it had always been. Mounted in their gilded frames, landscape paintings of the surrounding dales painted by various artists down through the years graced the walls, which were covered in a soft jonquil shade of painted silk wallpaper. The furniture, with its ornamental cabriole legs, was largely clustered around the rubble stone hearth, where tea was served before a cheery fire. However, here and there sat other groupings of chairs, as well as a table in the corner used for cards. A pair of double doors in the far wall could be thrown open to the family parlor beyond to form one large room for entertaining.

  I did spare a moment to wonder at our gathering in the more formal drawing room rather than the cozier family parlor. Was this done on my account or Tante Ilse’s? And precisely what message was Mother trying to convey?