by L. A. Nisula
I was putting the finishing touches on my diagram when I began to feel I was being watched. I closed up my notebook and tried to glance casually around in case the person watching me happened to be involved in the murder.
It was the resident of Mulberry Cottage. She was roughly my age, with dark hair, wearing a sensible green cotton skirt and shirtwaist. She had come outside while I’d been making notes and had set up an easel in her side garden, and now she was sitting beside it, watching me. As she was doing so quite openly, I thought it unlikely she knew I was investigating, or if she did, that she was involved. When she realized I was looking at her she stood up and crossed the lawn.
“I didn’t like to disturb when I thought you were sketching, but that was much too quick.”
I smiled back. “Just taking some notes.” I noticed she had an easel set up. “Do you paint?”
“Strictly amateur, but it gives my mind a nice rest. Helen is the real artist here. Helen Dyer. I can see you haven’t heard of her, no, it’s quite all right, but she has had a few showings in London. And I’m Nora Hayworth.” She held out her hand.
“Miss Cassandra Pengear,” I answered and shook her hand.
“And are you on a walking holiday, Miss Cassandra Pengear?”
“Just a holiday. At Oakwood Cottage.”
“Oh dear, that means you’ve not had the best time so far.”
It seemed news traveled as fast as I would have expected. “So you’ve heard about our discovery?”
“Yes, most unfortunate. Although I suppose if anyone around here was going to be found murdered, Mr. Hoyt was a good candidate.”
So village gossip did include the victim’s name. That was good to know. “Why do you say that?”
She leaned closer to the wall. “Well, he has a reputation. Between the distraught abandoned ladies, the incensed betrayed ladies, and the various angry husbands, there are quite a lot of good suspects in the village.”
That sounded like what Mrs. Albright had found out in the shops. “Was there anyone in particular who might have done it?”
“Not that I know of. It’s all heresy and rumors for the most part, but from very reliable sources, which sounds suspect, I know, but really...”
“You?” I asked, hoping I sounded commiserating and not like I was interrogating her or suspected her.
“No, not for want of trying on his part. I sent him packing with a flea in his ear. Same with Helen, although she managed to be quite subtle about it. I was far more direct.” She looked at me, then grinned a little and said, “A friend of ours, a portrait painter. She was staying for the summer and decided it would be an experience. But she’s a terrible suspect. She knew exactly what she was getting into going into it, and she’s been in Paris for at least a month now. We did see him having quite a cozy chat with Mrs. Greene down by the mill, but that was a while ago, and Mrs. Glynn, that’s the miller’s wife, didn’t seem to know anything about it, and she would have, I assure you. But you can tell from the way people look at him, who avoids him in the village while glaring, who pretends to avoid him while sneaking looks. You know that sort of thing.”
“I suppose I do.”
Miss Hayworth nodded and leaned against the gate. “Are you staying at Oakwood Cottage by yourself?”
“No, I came down with a friend.”
“Oh?” she asked, clearly hoping for more information.
“My landlady, Mrs. Albright. She’s friends with Mrs. Foster; that’s how we were invited to stay.”
“I see. If you were alone there, I was going to ask if you wanted to kip out on our settee. It can’t be nice being in a house where a body was found, but to be there alone...”
“It’s kind of you to think of it.” It was a kind thought, but she did seem to know quite a bit about local gossip and was more than a bit interested in our corpse, so I decided against asking about who had access to the river. I didn’t want the killer to know we had seen the body was wet, and while Miss Hayworth didn’t strike me as much of a one for spreading gossip, she certainly seemed to collect it, and news clearly traveled quickly. To be safe, I decided to sneak up on my questions. “This is a pleasant part of the village.”
If she thought the change of subject odd, she didn’t give any sign of it. Perhaps she thought I didn’t want to talk about the body anymore. “It is. We were happy to find Mulberry Cottage. It’s close enough to the village to be convenient to the shops, but not so close that you’re running into everyone all day. We were spoiled in London for being close to things, but there was no room in our little flat. It was a relief to be able to move out here.”
“And you have nice neighbors?” Perhaps I wouldn’t have to rely on Mrs. Albright talking to Mrs. Otway.
“Well, the best part, aside from the size—when we were living in London we were always tripping over her easel and my notebooks—is that the Brooks, who own that cottage,” she pointed to the one right beside theirs, “are almost never here. He’s a banker in London and they only come down when he has a holiday, so we can use the garden without worry.”
“That does sound nice. And he’s not there often?” I hoped she’d respond by telling me when he’d last been down.
“Not more than two or three times a year. Makes you wonder why he bothered to buy the place at all.”
I decided the Brooks’ schedule was something Mrs. Albright could get from Mrs. Otway easily enough. “And what about the people next to them?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Khan. He used to own the greengrocers in the village until he sold it to a nephew and retired. They’re a nice, quiet couple. I think they’re as pleased as we are to have the Brooks between us. No one to disturb his bird watching.”
Someone else who would know the Brooks’ schedule. “And the large cottage at the end of the lane?”
“Trillwell Lodge. That’s rented out. The latest are Lord Hector and Mr. Briggs.” I could tell from her tone that they were not the sort of neighbors she approved of.
“Have they been there long?”
“All summer, and I don’t think we have much chance of getting rid of them in the fall either.”
“I take it they’re not as easy as the Brooks.”
“The very worst of what you’re imaging of two men with money and time and nothing to fill it. Drinking, carousing, whatever you’re imagining, it’s probably worse. Just last week, Mr. Briggs was so drunk, he was walking along the lane without his trousers, yelling about how the delivery wagon was late. Mr. Khan heard him carrying on and went down to tell him to be quiet, and the argument that ensued, well, I’m amazed the whole village didn’t come running down to see the show.”
I wondered if that made them good suspects. Perhaps one or both of them had been drunk, and leaving the body in someone’s sitting room had seemed a good idea at the time, although if they had killed him... And there was still the question of the wet clothes. “A pity. It seems like they’d have a good view of the river.”
“It seems so, doesn’t it? Quite nicely situated. But I don’t want to keep you.”
I suspected she wanted to return to her painting, so gathered up my notebook and pen. “I should be starting for home myself.”
“I hope to see you again.”
“Likewise.” I started slowly down the lane, hoping that I looked as if I were still looking at whatever she thought I’d been taking notes on. By the time I was outside the Brooks’ cottage, she seemed absorbed in her painting, and fortunately was facing the back of her garden, not the lane. I didn’t want to have to explain why I was going to pay a call on the disreputable Lord Hector and Mr. Briggs.
Chapter 8
I CONTINUED DOWN THE LANE and went up to the gate to get a good look at the lodge. It was situated close to the riverbank, close enough where the prospect of fishing could be offered as a feature. The front gate was wide open and looked as if someone had bent the latch at some point, stopping it from locking. That seemed to be an open invitation for walkers to go in, or at l
east something that could be taken to be an open invitation, so I went through into the front garden.
I decided the best thing to do first was to have a look at where the property met the river. If it was too far away, I could be wasting my time. And if the residents were guilty, they were hardly likely to allow me to have a look, particularly once they heard where I was staying. A quick glance at the front of the house showed that the curtains were drawn and there was no sign of anyone outside. It seemed unlikely I’d be spotted, and if I was, I could always say I thought it was a walking path. I cut across the lawn to the side garden, avoiding the path that led to the main house in case anyone happened to glance out of a window.
The river was still shallow along the edge of the garden, although not as shallow as near the ford, and the side garden did indeed pass very close to the river. In fact, what I took to be the kitchen door opened out onto a little sort of stone terrace that had been set up as a place to have tea or breakfast, and the small area ended just before the reeds along the side of the river. Any body found there would definitely point to the residents of the cottage as suspects. And the terrace was used by the current residents. At least, someone had left a spoon under the table, and there was a coffee-stained napkin hanging over one of the bushes that still looked damp, although I had no desire to investigate that further. It seemed I’d found a likely spot for Mr. Hoyt’s murder.
So what to do with it? I’d have to tell Sargent Harris, although as there appeared to be both money and a title involved, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he were reluctant to do much investigating without some sort of proof. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he would rather be investigating me or Mrs. Albright, no matter how unlikely we were as suspects. If I wanted to get a look at the two best suspects so far, I’d have to do it now. Mindful of Miss Hayworth’s opinion of them, I slipped one of the more lethal-looking pins from my hat and transferred it to my pocket. It never hurt to be prepared. Then I started for the front door.
As no one seemed to have noticed I was there, I didn’t bother pretending I had just come through the front gate but crossed the lawn in the most direct way to the front step. The morning post was sitting on the welcome mat, and what I took to be the evening post was sticking out of the slot. Apparently, no one in the house was expecting any important letters. I picked up the envelopes from the ground—I certainly wouldn’t want them to get any wetter than they already were—and flipped through them, but there was nothing particularly interesting. Several bills from shops in London, although none seemed to be marked urgent or past due, a letter from a bank to Mr. Briggs, a few advertisements. Nothing for Lord Hector, I noticed. I considered trying to cram the letters into the slot, but there seemed to be more than one day’s mail sticking out of it, so I held onto them and tried the knocker, which was a large, plain brass sort, boring but heavy enough to make a good sound. I waited, but there was no sign of life inside. I wished I hadn’t used that phrase in my head and reached for the knocker again.
When there was no response to my second knock, I hit the knocker against the door for a third time and waited, wondering what to do if no one came. I assumed there would be a valet or footman of some sort to open the door and mind the place, and was rather hoping he would be a recent hire and not a loyal retainer who’d known them since they were boys and would refuse to gossip or complain about his employers. Lord Hector and Mr. Briggs did not sound like easy charges or the sort to do for themselves. So I was quite surprised when the door was flung open and a blond man not much over thirty in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat said, “Ladies, welcome to Trillwell Lodge!” and flung his arm out with more enthusiasm than balance, nearly knocking my hat off in the process. Avoiding my hat at the last moment caused him to stumble into the doorway, and I could see there was another man behind him, also in shirtsleeves and also having trouble staying upright.
“Not who I was expecting,” the one who opened the door said. “Collecting? Think I gave at the office. Hope I did. Bit short otherwise.”
The man behind him attempted to look over his shoulder and managed to bump into him instead. “Thought there were three coming down.”
I stayed quiet and waited to see if there was going to be some sense in that sentence.
The man continued to ramble over his friend’s shoulder but didn’t make any more sense. “We definitely said we wanted three down from London. Or was that for next week? Is it next week? She’s not the normal sort they send.”
“I don’t think she’s the one from London,” the slightly less inebriated one said.
I gave him my best glare, the one I normally saved for Inspector Wainwright when he was being particularly annoying, and said, “I am most definitely not down from London to see you. But I would like to know why you left a corpse in front of my fire.”
That sobered them up, or at least the one at the door. His friend continued to stumble between the entryway and the parlor. “You’re sure she’s not the one from London?”
“Shut up, Freddie,” the man at the door snapped over his shoulder. “You’ll have to forgive him, he’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Lord Hector Gibbons, at your service.” He stuck out his hand and stumbled into the door frame. I stayed where I was and watched as he managed to catch himself before he fell. “Not quite sober myself, but as you said, we’ve had a corpse. How did you know? I could have sworn we dumped him at Foster’s place.”
“Deserved it too. Always complaining ’bout us. Said we’re always loud and drunk. We’re not loud.”
“Freddie, go in the kitchen.”
“Why? I’m not the cook.”
“Kitchen! Coffee!”
I assumed Freddie was Mr. Briggs. He muttered something but stumbled in what I assumed was the direction of the kitchen.
Lord Hector turned back to me. “Anyway, terribly sorry. Could have sworn we dumped him at Mrs. Foster’s cottage. You’re certain you found him in yours? You didn’t stumble into hers by mistake?”
“I take it that’s something you do often? Stumble into the wrong cottage?” I arched an eyebrow and waited a beat to let him think I was expecting an answer, then decided that, as he seemed to be making something that resembled an effort I’d give him a little bit of information. “We’re staying at Mrs. Foster’s cottage.”
“Oh. Good. Thought I was already drunk when we moved him, and I didn’t start drinking until after. Not that day anyway.”
As he seemed willing to talk, I thought I might as well try to question him. “Did you know him?”
“Never seen him before. Tried going through his pockets when we found him out in the water, but there wasn’t any identification. That’s what they look for, i-den-ti-fi-ca-tion.” He said the last very clearly, as if he were having a bit of trouble with the longer words.
“And how long have you been staying here?”
“Weeks, weeks. Father doesn’t want me in Town, and Oxford doesn’t ever want me again, so we’re here. And now you’re wondering why I didn’t know him if I’ve been here weeks and weeks, but I haven’t been to the village. Not much. They don’t like us there, I blame the vicar. I always blame the vicar. No one else does, and you know they’re always up to something. So we have everything sent down from London. Food, wine, clothes, ladies. Want some Fortnum & Mason’s ham? Just came down in the hamper. Or foie gras?”
I wasn’t about to go into the cottage with him. “What time did you find him?”
“Dunno. It was before tea. About quarter to two or so.”
That seemed quite specific from someone who claimed not to know and was at least partly drunk, although I was beginning to wonder how much of that was an act. “Very well. I’m sure Sergeant Harris will be very interested in all this.”
“You’re not going to the police, are you?” For a moment, he looked perfectly sober, then he leaned against the door again. “I mean, think of the ladies. Poor girls, just down from London. Sergeant Harris might get the wrong idea. You wouldn’t
want to get them in trouble.”
“I’m sure they will be perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, even if it means throwing you on the tender mercies of Sergeant Harris. I’m sure he’ll be by to call later. Here’s your mail. Mostly bills, I think. Enjoy your foie gras.” I hurried down the path before he could try convincing me not to go to the police.
Lord Hector and Mr. Briggs were definitely interesting suspects, but Lord Hector had said they found Mr. Hoyt in the water, which suggested they hadn’t put him there. Still, I thought at least part of his drunkenness was an act; he could have used the word deliberately to throw me off. Or they might have been so drunk when they killed him they didn’t remember doing it. Or it could have been his friend who’d killed Mr. Hoyt. I hadn’t spoken to him, not that I would have gotten any sense out of him in the state he was in. Still, it was something to bring to Sergeant Harris, or perhaps Constable Taylor would be a better choice. He could take credit for it or put it down to an anonymous source. Of course here, everyone would guess it was either me or Mrs. Albright.
As I approached the gate leading to the lane, I realized there was a woman waiting at the end of the path, holding a folding easel. She waved as I approached. “I was ready to cosh him over the head if you needed the escape.” She made an abbreviated coshing motion with her easel. “But it seems you managed him just fine on your own. And now that I look, you do seem to have some rather lethal-looking hatpins. You’ll have to tell me where you find those.”
“Miss Dyer, I presume?”
“Right you are. And a much better detective than our sergeant, who can’t find his own hat more often than not. Am I right to think you’ve met Nora, then?”
“I have, yes.”
Miss Dyer picked up the box of paints she’d put down while preparing to come to my aid and started down the path towards her cottage. “Whyever did you go to visit those two? I don’t think they’re actually dangerous to know, but only because they’re normally too drunk to answer the door. You’re not related to one of them, are you?”
