Murder Most Fair

by Anna Lee Huber

  Sidney pulled the Pierce-Arrow around to the carriage house, while Mother greeted the rest of us at the door. I couldn’t help but notice how much more warmly she embraced my sister than she had me, but I had known that was the way it would be. In any case, this brief display of affection did not prevent her from unleashing her usual criticisms thinly veiled as mothering.

  “Grace, your skin is looking a bit dry and flaky,” she proclaimed, grasping her chin and turning her face left and then right. “Go up and have an oatmeal bath here in a moment.”

  “Yes, Mother,” she replied dutifully.

  “Was your sister prompt?”

  I met Mother’s gaze evenly before turning to Grace, curious to hear her response. It took everything in me not to give in to the urge to arch a single eyebrow in cynicism.

  “Yes, she met me on the platform,” she said, removing her hat.

  “In the rain?” Mother queried.

  “By then it had stopped,” I replied.

  Mother frowned, eyeing the water spots that marred the hat’s silk ribbon, but said nothing more.

  CHAPTER 18

  The following day dawned to bright blue skies dotted with downy clouds, but blustery winds—a typical late-autumn morning amid the Dales. Having been confined to the Pierce-Arrow and the house much of the day before, I was eager to stretch my legs, and set off for a ramble shortly after midday with Sidney and Tim, while Tabitha scampered along after us. We returned mud splattered and windblown, but in happy spirits, only to be met in the yard by Freddy.

  “Have any of you seen Fräulein Bauer?”

  “No,” I replied. “Is Tante Ilse looking for her?”

  The furrow in his brow deepened. “Apparently, she’s been asking for the girl for three hours, but no one can find her.”

  My gaze met Sidney’s as a vague stirring of alarm began inside me. “Maybe she took a bicycle to run an errand in the village,” I suggested.

  Freddy shook his head. “We checked. All the bicycles are accounted for.”

  Tim stared in puzzlement at his feet, but he didn’t offer any other suggestions.

  “Well, she must be somewhere.” I turned to survey the courtyard, trying not to allow my fears to race ahead. But she was a German in the depths of Yorkshire, one who barely spoke English, and I had witnessed the antagonism directed at her. “Let me speak with Tante Ilse. Perhaps she’s merely forgotten where she’s gone.”

  I set off across the courtyard with a brisk stride, uncertain which outcome I hoped for. I didn’t want to be confronted with more evidence that Tante Ilse’s memory was not what it had once been, but I also wished for Bauer to be safe. I dashed up the stairs in my split skirt and half boots, only to be met by Matilda exiting my bedchamber.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, her posture too furtive for her presence there to be innocent.

  She straightened in affront, as if she were the one who had been wronged. “I saw Bauer sneakin’ out of your room this morn. She seemed nervous, so I went in to see what trouble she was up to.”

  “She’s been helping to care for and press my clothes,” I retorted. “Not that that’s any of your concern.”

  “Yes, well, she was doing nowt with your clothes. Rather, she was leavin’ a letter.”

  This surprised me, and Matilda could tell, for her beady black eyes glinted with satisfaction.

  “I thowt it was for Mr. Kent, so I took it. Planned to give it to Mrs. Townsend.”

  “You thought it was?” I pressed, knowing full well that Matilda would have had no compunctions about opening it and reading it.

  She scowled. “It was written in gibberish.”

  Which I took to mean German.

  “But what with her havin’ gone missing now, I thowt it might be best to return it. In case it explains that she’s run off or summat like that.”

  “Where is it?” I snapped, struggling to restrain my temper. She nodded toward the door to my bedchamber. “On your pillow.”

  I charged past her and across the room to where a crisp, white piece of paper lay on my pillow. I spared a thought for the note I’d found almost a week before under my pillow with its oblique warning—I know what you did—and then dismissed it to read the letter.

  It was, indeed, written in German. But the contents were not what I’d expected. She was not leaving Tante Ilse’s employ and attempting to make it back to Germany on her own. Rather, she asked me to meet her at the stone field barn near the river, not far from Violet’s house. The one that was just visible in the fold of a hill from the road. I knew the one she spoke of, but I wondered how she had discovered it.

  In truth, the entire letter was puzzling. If she needed to speak to me, why couldn’t she do so here? This request for me to meet her somewhere so remote and so far from the house smacked of a certain level of stealth and secrecy—one I wasn’t certain I was comfortable with.

  My suspicions briefly turned to Tante Ilse’s claims about the second deserter, but then I dismissed them. Bauer hadn’t even been in her employ when the man showed up at her home near Monschau. It seemed implausible that she knew anything about the matter other than what my great-aunt might have told her.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe Tante Ilse had told her something she felt I should know. Or maybe Bauer knew, or at least suspected, that the second deserter was an invention of my great-aunt’s faulty memory, as I feared. She might be hesitant to voice such suspicions, particularly in front of my parents, who could be intimidating. Perhaps she’d thought that if she requested to speak with me privately here they might interfere. Or that the other servants who held such a dislike of her might overhear.

  Whatever the case, I was not going to learn the answers by sitting there speculating on it. I hurried from our room, nearly colliding with Grace, to whom I apologized, before pattering down the stairs.

  “Verity, what on earth . . . ?” my mother exclaimed, emerging from the drawing room.

  “I’ll explain later,” I called over my shoulder as I rushed from the house. Bauer had requested the meeting for two o’clock, and it was already over an hour after.

  “I think I know where Bauer is,” I told Sidney, Tim, and Freddy as I reached the courtyard, and then lowered my voice so as not to be overheard. “She left a note saying she wished to speak to me.” I glanced around me. “I suspect about something she didn’t want someone here to overhear. Something about Tante Ilse’s health or the servants’ ill treatment of her. I don’t know. But she’s probably there waiting now.” I looked at Freddy. “Will you go to Tante Ilse and reassure her? I’ll return with Bauer as swiftly as I can.”

  He nodded and strode off toward the house.

  “Shall I fetch the motorcar?” Sidney asked, but I shook my head.

  “No, she’s waiting at the field barn near the river. The one at the edge of the Capshaw property where the river folds back in on itself, and it will be faster to reach by bicycle. The lanes leading most directly to it are muddy and rutted—too rough for your Pierce-Arrow, which will only get stuck.” I swiveled toward Tim, noticing for the first time how pale his face had grown. I broke off from what I had been going to say to question him. “What is it?”

  He swallowed and shook his head. “Nothing. Just . . . a sore muscle.”

  I frowned, not entirely satisfied with his answer, but there wasn’t time to ponder why. “Will you take the foot track through Metcalfe’s wood? It’s unlikely, but she might have learned about it from someone and realized it was a shortcut. I don’t want to miss her if she’s already set off back to Brock House.”

  He nodded, hastening off to do so. Tabitha bounded along after him and then turned back toward me and Sidney as we collected and mounted our bicycles. The border collie seemed undecided as to who needed herding most. As we pedaled off down the drive, she wheeled about to trot after Tim, evidently determining he would need her company more.

  Sidney and I crossed the road, veering off onto one of the rutted tracks more often used b
y farm lorries or for herding the sheep. I kept to the grassy verge, attempting to avoid most of the mud and puddles, though my boots and the hem of my drab split skirt were already hopelessly splattered. An ingenious garment, the split skirt sported two long rows of large buttons down each hip that could be fastened into trousers or a skirt. I was glad I’d chosen the former that morning, no matter my mother’s scowls.

  I breathed deep, trying to quiet the flutter of nerves that had taken flight inside me. It was no good speculating on what Bauer wished to tell me. Not until we reached her. So I tried to concentrate on maintaining my balance over the rough ground, and on the sweetness of the country air.

  Somehow I’d forgotten how crisp and clear the air was here, particularly after living so long amidst the soot and grime of London. It filled my lungs and flooded through my veins, reaching clear down into my toes. Even the occasional whiff of cow manure borne on the wind only served to emphasize the clarity of the breeze.

  My grandfather had liked to say that was why the lads and lassies born among the Dales grew to be so tall and strapping, and perhaps there was something to that. I felt more invigorated, more anxious to stretch my arms and legs, even in spite of the tossing and turning I did at night, unable to rest. Maybe tonight after our hard ramble and this bicycle ride, maybe then my body would be so fatigued that my mind would have no choice but to be quiet.

  We paused at the top of a rise to catch our breath. Below us in a fold at the base of a hill rested the stone barn where Bauer had asked me to meet her. Like most such field barns in the Dales, it had been positioned at a distance from the main farm buildings, in the midst of a hay meadow. During summer and autumn, the hay was cut and dried there, and then stored in the lofts above in order to feed the cattle who were herded into the barns from the surrounding fields during the cold winter nights and the harshest of days. Even now I could see sheep dotting the meadows all around, grazing on the tufts of grass.

  However, unlike most field barns, there was also a small copse of trees abutting the stone fence that formed part of the structure’s far wall. Most barns stood in the open, with naught but perhaps a single lone tree to break the rise of the fells and dales and the rambling stone fences cutting across them to divide the landscape into pastures. Beyond the copse lay the bend of the River Ure, separating the Capshaws’ property from the Metcalfes’ to the east.

  Sidney opened the gate between two such meadows, closing it behind us as we pushed our bicycles through. “I don’t see anyone.” His cheeks were reddened from the wind and the dark hair at his temples dampened with sweat beneath his flat cap. “Do you think she’s still waiting inside?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” I replied, pushing off to glide down the hill. The uneven lane followed the craggy, winding stone fence line to the square, stolid structure. While it seemed flat gray at a distance, as we drew closer I could see that the walls of the structure were splotched with colors undulating from gleaming white to darkest granite. Here and there amidst the variations in shade grew some sort of yellow lichen. The slate roof sagged slightly near the eastern peak line, just above the single window cut into the upper story.

  We slowed as our bicycles drew near, and I expected the noise of the tires crunching over the dirt and the click of their spinning to draw Bauer out from the interior, but she did not emerge. Dismounting, I walked the cycle closer, before leaning it against the wall to the left of the arched wooden cattle doors. One side gaped open, and I stepped closer to peer inside.

  “Fräulein Bauer,” I called. “Are you still here?” I pushed the door wider, wishing there were more windows to illuminate the dark interior. “I only just received your note.” I took a cautious step forward, with Sidney following close behind.

  Almost immediately, I sensed that something was wrong, though I wasn’t certain exactly why. Perhaps it was the stillness of the barn, which seemed almost unnatural even in its isolated setting. Or maybe it was my heightened instincts from the war, on which I’d learned to rely without questioning why.

  But as my eyes and ears adjusted, I realized it wasn’t them, or even my intuition that had alerted me, but rather my nose. Beneath the strong aroma of hay and the milder stench of damp stone and muck from some months past, another scent tickled my nostrils. One that was sharp and metallic, and carried with it the association of far grimmer memories.

  Inching forward, I stumbled to a stop at the sight of the dark rivulet staining the earth. My gaze followed it to where Bauer’s body was laid out across the floor, her eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, the bodice of her simple brown coat saturated with blood.

  Sidney swore savagely over my shoulder.

  I swallowed against the urge to vomit, absolutely horrified for the poor girl. I was swamped by the feeling I’d somehow failed her. Alone and far from home in a hostile land, Bauer should have been able to rely on us for protection, and yet look at what had happened to her. But who on earth would do such a thing? And why?

  I forced myself to push these thoughts aside for the moment, allowing my gaze to drift over the scene before me, scrutinizing every detail.

  Meanwhile Sidney had circled around the body to get a different view. “What did this to her?” he queried, pointing at the multiple rends in the coat.

  “That, I should say,” I answered in a far calmer voice than I expected to emerge. I gestured toward the pitchfork that had been tossed to the side. Blood stained its tines. If we were lucky, the killer’s fingerprints would be on it, but given the chill of the day, I wasn’t counting on it.

  I moved a step closer, careful to avoid the blood and any potential evidence. “But she’s been moved.” I gestured toward the post a short distance away. “See the blood staining the wood and the drag marks in the floor between here and there. I would say she slumped there after being stabbed and then was moved to this spot and laid out.”

  “By the killer?” Sidney posited, his gaze shifting to meet mine. “Or did someone else find her first?”

  We both turned then, surveying the rest of the barn. Bales of hay were stacked high in the loft above, providing ample places for someone to hide. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  He moved toward the ladder on stealthy feet and began to climb while I backed toward the door, alert for any movement or shift in the shadows above. At the top, he made one final burst of movement to enter the loft before anyone could leap out at him while he was at a disadvantage. Then he began to systematically search the space, hindered by the towering piles of hay.

  He was nearly finished, when something brushed past my right leg and then grabbed my left shoulder from behind. I whirled about, driving all my weight down on the arm of my assailant to throw them off balance. Releasing me, they stumbled backward. Which was all that saved them from me striking upward with my knee.

  “Bloody hell, Verity,” Tim snapped as he righted himself, clutching his right arm. “What did you do that for?”

  I gasped in relief, pressing a hand over my heart. “For heaven’s sake, Tim, don’t you know better than to grab a woman from behind?”

  “None of the women I know would react like that,” he groused, eyeing me sullenly.

  He was undoubtedly right, and not wishing to put too fine a point on that fact, I turned my attention to Tabitha, ordering her to stay. It must have been she who had brushed past my leg. Tim looked up to watch Sidney return down the ladder before querying in confusion.

  “You thought she was in the hay loft?”

  I grabbed hold of the collie’s collar, restraining her unresisting body as I stepped to the side and allowed him to see deeper into the barn.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed at the sight of Bauer’s body. “What happened?” His gaze darted up to the loft and back. “Did she fall?”

  “She was stabbed,” I replied. “Probably by that pitchfork.”

  Tim had served for over a year at the Western Front. I knew he’d witnessed many of the same horro
rs Sidney had. But it seemed he was still capable of being shocked. His eyes blinked wide, and his face blanched, perhaps at the brutality of the crime.

  I reached out to grip his shoulder, forcing him to look at me. “I need you to take one of the bicycles and go get Freddy. Then drive to Hawes and fetch the police.”

  “Father won’t let me take the motorcar,” he replied softly.

  “For this, I think he will. And if not, take the Pierce-Arrow.”

  “Just don’t wreck it,” Sidney added.

  Tim’s eyes darted to him in silent question.

  “Yes, I know about the Sunbeam. Your brother was only too happy to tell me about it.”

  Apparently this had been a conversation I had not been party to, for I could only surmise what they were talking about.

  Tim flushed and turned to go, but I stopped him before he set off.

  “Take Tabitha with you. We don’t need her getting curious,” I added, perhaps unnecessarily.

  Tim’s face blanched, but he managed to call to the collie, who glanced back toward the interior of the barn once before dutifully following him as he climbed onto a bicycle and rode off up the lane. I watched their progress and then turned to note the copse of trees that butted up next to the field barn.

  Curious, I crossed slowly toward the stone fence separating the wood from the meadow. Most of the trees were stripped of their leaves, but a handful of smaller shrubs and saplings still sported foliage in russet and red. It seemed as if it would be impossible for someone to conceal themselves there unseen, and yet I couldn’t halt the sensation that we were being watched.

  Sidney stopped beside me, his eyes searching the copse as mine did. “Are you thinking this is the way the killer came?”

  “It would certainly afford him or her the element of surprise.”