He nodded. “What’s on the other side?”
“The Capshaw residence.” And Violet’s late mother’s garden. “Though the trees straggle along the fence line nearly to the road leading to Hawes, so anyone could have walked up from there with a degree of concealment.”
He nodded, turning to look toward the east. “And that direction? What lies there?”
“It’s Metcalfe property as far as the eye can see. We actually crossed it to reach here.” I turned to survey the meadow before us and the nodding heads of three sheep about a hundred feet away. “But this field belongs to the Kiddses. Or it used to. I don’t know for certain now. But I daresay Freddy will.”
I studied the woods again, but the sensation itching along my spine had stopped. Which meant either I was imagining things, or the person who had been watching us had stolen away.
CHAPTER 19
When Freddy arrived sometime later, he didn’t come from the direction of Brock House, but rather through the copse, setting his black medical bag down on top of the low stone wall before hopping over.
“I was called to the Hardcastles’,” he replied to my unspoken query. “Tim found me there before driving on into town. Is it true?” Freddy’s brow had drawn tight as he followed us around the corner of the field barn toward the door. “Tim said Fräulein Bauer was dead; that her chest was all sliced up.”
“I don’t know that I would categorize it precisely like that,” I replied, conferring with Sidney with my eyes. “But she received multiple puncture wounds, and it seems evident it came from the bloody pitchfork lying near her body. However, you’ll have to confirm.” I led him to Bauer’s body, making a wide circle to the other side. “We haven’t touched her clothing or examined the wounds closely for fear of disturbing any evidence. We thought you should be the one to do so.”
When Freddy didn’t kneel beside the body, I looked up to find him examining me instead. My calm, straightforward tone had evidently surprised him. I supposed he’d expected me to be near hysterics, but what he didn’t know, and I couldn’t explain, was that I’d seen far worse during the war. In any case, whatever he was thinking, I could tell it wasn’t complimentary. Maybe he assumed I was unfeeling.
“Are we correct? Did the pitchfork cause her wounds?” Sidney prodded, drawing my brother’s attention away from me.
He set down his bag and squatted next to the corpse. “Let’s see.”
He opened her brown coat to reveal her once-dove-gray gown beneath, its bodice being soaked with blood. There were two distinct rents in the fabric at an angle slanting downward right to left—the first puncture being just below her rib cage, while the second was located below and to the left of her navel. A third rip in the fabric appeared near her hip, where the bodice and skirt joined, as if the third prong had gouged her skin there.
Avoiding looking at Bauer’s face, I watched Freddy as he carefully inspected the wounds through the fabric, to preserve her modesty, though he did widen one of the gaps with his fingers to provide a better view. I’d never had the opportunity to observe my brother in his capacity as a medical officer or a surgeon, and doing so offered me new insight into the man he’d become. He was quick and precise, but also persistent and thorough, examining points on her body beyond her obvious punctures and lacerations.
“Yes, her wounds are consistent with those that would be caused by a pitchfork. And given the fact the prongs of said implement are bloody, it seems safe to say that pitchfork caused them,” he replied to Sidney’s query as he lifted each of her hands, turning them over to scrutinize them.
“Does she have any defensive wounds?” I asked.
His gaze lifted to meet mine, his attention momentarily faltering. “No. At least, none that I can see. I presume the police surgeon will do a much more thorough examination.”
He finished his inspection and draped the edges of her coat closed over the torso. Pulling a cloth from his bag, he wiped the worst of the blood from his hands before reaching up to pass a hand over her vacant, staring eyes to close them.
I pivoted left and right, sweeping my gaze over the contents of the barn from this angle. The interior of the barn was dimly lit—even more so now as dusk approached, than it would have been at two o’clock, and yet I could clearly make out most of the contents. “She must have seen her attacker coming toward her,” I postulated, ignoring Freddy’s continued scrutiny. “Perhaps that’s why she backed up against this wall. If she couldn’t get around him, or her,” I amended, conceding it could have been a woman. “Then she had no place else to go.”
Sidney nodded, lifting aside the edges of his coat to prop his hands on his hips. “Though the use of the pitchfork as the murder weapon suggests this wasn’t planned.”
I agreed.
“But what was she doing here in the first place?” Freddy demanded. “Someone must have lured her here.”
“I don’t know how she discovered this place or why she picked it. But she was here because she’d left me a note asking me to meet her, remember.” I scowled. “Unfortunately, Matilda took it from our room after Bauer left it this morning, and only returned it after she’d gone missing.”
I rounded the body, striding closer to the door and the fresh air. Crossing my arms over my deep blue wool coat against the chill, I gazed out through the opening and over the meadow toward the top of the hill where Sidney and I had briefly rested. One lone oak tree stood at the crest along the fence line, its branches waving in the wind.
“Then Matilda knew where she was going,” Sidney surmised, moving to stand beside me.
I couldn’t deny that was where my thoughts had also gone, to Matilda’s potential culpability. “Possibly. Though she says she couldn’t read it because it was written in German.” A language it was doubtful she knew. “But there are German-to-English dictionaries in the library, and Matilda is nothing if not resourceful.”
“You can’t seriously suspect Mother’s maid of doing this?” Freddy protested, gesturing behind us toward the body.
“Of course I can. Matilda delights in making trouble for others, especially those she doesn’t like. It would be just like her to follow Fräulein Bauer here, expecting to catch her doing something she shouldn’t.” And she would have had time to do so and then return to the house before Tim, Sidney, and I returned from our ramble.
“Yes, but following her here to spy on her and killing her are two very different things.”
“They are,” I conceded. “But she had the knowledge of her whereabouts, the opportunity, and the motive.” I turned my sharp glare on my brother before he could protest further. “She hated Bauer because she was German. I witnessed for myself how terribly she treated her. As such, she’s a logical suspect, and will need to be questioned.”
Freddy removed his flat cap and scraped his forearm over his forehead in aggravation before replacing it. “Well, if you’re going to include hatred of Germans as a motive, then that makes at least half the village suspects.”
“I’m aware,” I replied grimly. “But I daresay very few, if any, of them knew Bauer would be at this barn at two o’clock this afternoon. Someone might have seen her coming this way and followed her. But otherwise I doubt she advertised her intentions beforehand.” Though I had to accede it was possible she’d confided in someone, but who? She knew no one but our family.
Sidney pulled his cigarette case from the inside pocket of his coat and extracted a cigarette before offering one to Freddy, who took it. “Regardless, until we have more evidence, this is all speculation.” He arched a single eyebrow at my brother, speaking around the fag dangling from the corner of his lip as he lit it. “And we won’t have more evidence until we begin asking questions.”
“Don’t you mean, until the police start asking questions?” Freddy replied as he lit his own cigarette.
Sidney and I both turned to him with cynical stares.
“Then your local policeman is experienced with murder investigations?” Sidney was the first to reply.
“Well, no. But he’ll send for the inspector in Richmond, or perhaps they’ll even call in Scotland Yard.”
I scoffed. “Only if he’s required to, Freddy. But the Sergeant Bibby I remember won’t lift a finger to solve the murder of a German. He’s most likely to declare it the work of some passing vagrant.”
The memory of Tante Ilse’s claims about the second deserter following her to England rang in my ears, and I wondered if I should have tried harder to find out if there was a stranger in the surrounding area. But beyond the incident in the churchyard, I’d not heard nor seen anything to indicate there was an outsider in Hawes. Nothing but the note, that is. And I still wasn’t convinced that wasn’t the work of someone else.
I firmed my chin in resolve. “Fräulein Bauer was under our protection. It was our responsibility to keep her safe. And now that we’ve failed at that, it is our responsibility to find out who killed her, with or without the police’s help.”
I could feel Freddy watching me again, assessing me with new eyes, but there was nothing I could do about that. Not short of running away, and I refused to do that.
“The clerk for a shipping company, hmm?” he drawled, ruminating on the job I publicly claimed to have performed for the war effort, working for a company that imported and exported supplies for the military, a cover for the actual work I did for the Secret Service. He exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Right.” His eyes glittered angrily. “That’s not the first dead body you’ve seen,” he accused, gesturing with the fag clasped between his fingers.
“We have assisted with a murder investigation or two,” I replied softly, reminding him of one of the reasons Sidney and I had appeared so often in the newspapers these past six months.
“Is that all?” he challenged.
My chest tightened at the hint of disgust I heard in his voice. What I didn’t know was if it was directed toward what he suspected I’d done or at my having lied.
“Leave it be, Freddy,” Sidney urged.
“Then you know . . . whatever it is the rest of us apparently don’t?”
“Leave it be,” he declared more forcefully.
That Freddy was not prepared to do so was obvious, but the sound of approaching voices cut off his diatribe. We strolled to the corner of the building, watching as Sergeant Bibby hoisted his not inconsiderable frame over the stone wall separating the meadow from the Capshaws’ wood. Whatever rations those of us in London had endured during the war, Sergeant Bibby did not appear to have suffered the same hardship. Though, truth be told, all the people living in the countryside had been better off in that regard.
Tim had trailed more slowly behind him, but leapt over the fence with ease, earning him a sharp look from the sergeant.
“Mr. Kent, Mrs. Kent, Dr. Townsend,” he greeted us after hitching up his pants. “Mr. Townsend tells me there’s been some sort of accident.”
“Not an accident,” Sidney replied, offering the sergeant his hand to shake. “Come have a look.”
I watched the four men disappear around the corner of the barn, knowing from past experience that most policemen did not welcome a lady’s assistance, especially one who was viewed as nothing more than a society darling. But with Sidney being a war hero and the heir presumptive of a marquess, he would be heeded and accorded all due respect. It was best to leave the matter of showing the sergeant what we’d found to him.
Besides, my interest had been arrested by the person who had guided the sergeant and Tim to our location. Violet Capshaw remained on her side of the stone wall, a thick paisley shawl draped around her shoulders, which were braced against the chill of the onset of evening. I turned to see how close the sun had sunk toward the rolling horizon, bleeding the color from the sky, before strolling toward her, interested in what she had to share, if anything.
“Is it true, then? Was Frau Vischering’s maid truly murdered?”
“Yes.”
A dark strand of her hair caught in the corner of her mouth, and she lifted a hand to tuck it behind her ear. “What happened?”
I searched her amber eyes, wondering at her interest. Mild concern and curiosity shone in their depths, but she bore my scrutiny without complaint. If Violet was the killer, and I doubted that, then she was a cold-hearted one, indeed. But then I remembered she was also not a stranger to blood or death, having driven ambulances during the war.
“She was stabbed. With a pitchfork.”
Her eyes flared wide. “Good heavens!”
I shifted my feet, which ached from the hours of walking, cycling, and standing I’d done that day. And yet we still had more walking and cycling to do to return the way we’d come. “Did you see anyone come this way earlier this afternoon? Perhaps around two o’clock.”
“I didn’t. But perhaps Father did. I’ll ask him.”
I nodded, my gaze drifting over the mostly bare branches of the trees behind her, their bark turning gray in the fading light. “Do you venture through this part of your property often?”
“We rarely venture anywhere beyond the garden. Except in the spring,” she amended. “Sometimes I come this way then to check the wood for bluebells.” Her demeanor stiffened. “Why?”
I glanced over my shoulder. “I just wondered how much use this field barn sees during the warmer seasons. Whether anyone uses it other than to store hay and shelter sheep.”
Violet bit one corner of her bottom lip as she eyed the stone barn. “It does seem like an odd place to find the maid.”
I elected not to mention Bauer’s note, curious to hear what else she might suggest.
Her eyebrows arched in insinuation. “Maybe it was an assignation. Maybe they met here. She was a pretty girl, after all.”
She had been more than just pretty. And I suspected her German nationality would not have discouraged some men from taking advantage. In fact, it might have encouraged them to do so.
Violet’s eyes brightened. “Now that I think of it, I saw her speaking to someone in the village a few days ago. On Thursday.” She frowned. “Or was it Wednesday?” She shook her head, brushing aside this detail. “They were standing in the narrow passage between the chemist and the book shop with their heads bent close together.”
I straightened, my interest piqued. “Who was the man with her?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t familiar to me.”
“You mean he wasn’t from Hawes?”
“Maybe. Though I’m certain there are villagers I wouldn’t recognize. Servants and farm laborers and such. It’s impossible to know everyone.”
She was undoubtedly right, but I also couldn’t ignore the way my scalp tingled with awareness. I had seen a man in the churchyard who seemed familiar, and yet I could not identify him. And Tante Ilse had sworn she’d seen the second deserter in the same place. Was he the same man Violet had seen speaking to Bauer? And if so, why had he followed us here? Why had he approached her? Had she slipped a note from him under my pillow five days earlier? Is that what she’d wanted to talk to me about?
There were too many questions without answers.
“What did he look like?” I asked, hoping she’d taken more than a passing interest.
“I couldn’t see them well. They were in shadow. But he was about middling height and his clothing was that of a laborer.”
I turned at the sound of voices, realizing the men had already emerged from the barn. “Let me know if you think of anything else,” I told Violet. I took one step away before turning back. “Or if you see the man Fräulein Bauer was speaking to again.”
“I will,” she called after me as I strode away to rejoin the men.
“Aye, I’ll have to inform the inspector,” Sergeant Bibby was saying. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “A bloody Kraut murdered in Hawes,” he grumbled. “Of all the rotten luck. What was she doing here in Hawes anyway?”
“She served as my great-aunt’s maid,” Freddy replied stiffly. “You recall Mrs. Vischering.”
“Right, r
ight. I heard she was here for a visit.” He heaved an aggrieved sigh, turning back toward the barn. “Well, I suppose we can’t just leave her there.”
This earned him sharp looks from several of us.
“I guess there’s nowt for it but to move her to the station for the time being. And the pitchfork, too. It’ll have to be checked for fingerprints. If you gentlemen will assist me, perhaps Mr. Capshaw will have summat we can wrap her in to be carried,” he declared, striding off to speak with Violet.
That my brothers and Sidney would be doing the heavy lifting, there was no doubt, but I thought I preferred it that way anyway. At least I could trust them to treat her body with some care and respect. Though I wasn’t certain how much help Tim would be. He kept stealing glances toward the barn door, his pallor almost gray in the fading light.
Sidney rested a hand on my shoulder, drawing my attention. “Why don’t you go on back to Brock House. It will be dark soon and there’s nothing more you can do here.”
I had to concede he was right, and my feet were aching. “What of Tante Ilse and our parents?” I asked Tim. “Did you tell anyone else what happened?”
He swallowed. “I had to in order to convince Father to let me take the Rolls. And . . . Tante Ilse overheard.”
My lips pressed together tightly. I supposed I should have been glad he’d spared me the grim duty, but I wished we could have broken the news to her more gently.
“We’ll return as soon as we can,” Sidney told me as he walked with me toward the lone bicycle left. Before I mounted, he pulled me close to his side, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Be careful.”
I set off down the lane, although as the terrain grew steeper, I elected to dismount and walk the bicycle up. My legs were simply too tired to make the effort. At the top, I looked behind me to find my husband and brothers had sunk down next to each other, leaning their backs against the wall of the barn to smoke cigarettes. Had the terrain been flatter and their clothing a drab uniform, they might have been any one of the nameless detachments of soldiers I’d witnessed at ease in France in the rear of the trenches during the war.
Murder Most Fair Page 22
