by Sara Rosett
“What are you saying—that you’re done in?” I glanced at the bookshelves and hoped he didn’t have to sell any of his rare books. It would break his heart.
“No, thank goodness. I didn’t put in the principal from my inheritance. That would have been . . . awful. No, it’s not as bad as all that, but it’s—I’m afraid your trust is gone. Completely wiped out.”
Chapter Fourteen
Lady Holt’s voice brought me back to the drawing room. “. . . glad you’ve recovered from your spill, Don. Oh, excuse me. I must have a word with Serena . . .”
I reached out to steady myself, pressing my free hand against the back of a chair. “Mr. Pearce, formerly of Mercer, Blackthorne, and Thompkins?” I asked.
The width of Pearce’s smile decreased several degrees. Beside him, a hiss sounded as his wife sucked in a sharp breath. Pearce asked, “Have we met?”
“No, but not for want of trying on my part. You’re acquainted with my father, Cecil Belgrave.” My tone was even, but my chest rose and fell, and my heart pounded. “In fact, you gave him some ghastly financial advice.”
Mrs. Pearce’s hands fluttered up to her hair and then to her pearl choker. Mr. Pearce’s smile became fixed. “I suppose you’re referring to the Hartman incident. Unfortunate business, that. Lost quite a bit of money in it myself, so your family has my sympathies. Most regrettable.”
Pearce looked over my shoulder. “Emily’s parched. We must get a cocktail. Pleasure to meet you.” He moved away, his wife trailing after him. He looked back at her, and his steps checked. When she came even with him, he put his hand at the small of her back and propelled her forward with a little push.
Jasper appeared in front of me. “You look as if you could use a fresh drink.” He removed my cocktail glass from my hand and replaced it with another.
The cool of the glass pressed against my hot palm. “That man is a charlatan. I can’t believe he’s moving about in society as if nothing happened. He convinced Father to invest all of my trust in some shady operation.”
“Ah, so that’s why you look like the illustration out of one of my schoolbooks, Avenging Fury, plate number five.”
I gulped the new cocktail. It had a sour edge to it, and I winced. Across the room, Pearce said something to Dr. Finch and everyone in their group laughed.
“Careful, you’ll scorch the furniture if you continue to glower at him,” Jasper said.
“I looked for him—Pearce, I mean,” I said. “After Father told me the trust was gone. I wanted to speak to Mr. Pearce, but he’d suddenly retired. I know he left his firm in disgrace. No one said as much outright, but I heard rumors Pearce got a kickback for every investment he procured for Hartman’s laughable ‘investment.’ Nothing was ever proven, but the fact he disappeared from town and hid himself away in a small rural village speaks for itself.”
Jasper touched the back of my hand, where I still gripped the chair. “I’m sorry, old thing.”
I’d been staring at the back of Pearce’s head as I spoke, but now I looked at Jasper. The sympathy of his gaze quenched some of the fury radiating through me. I turned my hand under his and gave his fingers a quick squeeze, then removed my hand and squared my shoulders. “If Pearce thinks I’ll drop it, he’s sadly mistaken.”
“What will you do?”
“I’d like to wring his neck.” I tilted my drink up, finishing it off. “But that would be unladylike.”
“In the extreme. I’m sure Lady Holt has a chapter on it in her etiquette guide.” He glanced at the empty glass in my hand. “Would you like another? I’ll bring you one more, but then I’m cutting you off.”
“Yes, I could use one more. I think it’s going to be a long evening. I must plot my revenge on Mr. Pearce. It’s unbelievable he’s gotten away scot-free.”
Jasper took my glass. “Until now. I’m sure you’ll see he gets his comeuppance.”
As Jasper departed with my glass, Anna left her father’s side and joined me. “Good evening, Miss Belgrave. I’m so glad you’re here.” She glanced around the room and then looked back at me. “I have something I must ask you.”
I stared at her, my mind so filled with the encounter with Pearce that it had blanked everything else out. What was it I’d wanted to talk to her about? Oh, yes. The manuscript draft pages. I wrenched my thoughts away from Pearce and focused on Anna. “I wanted to speak to you too.”
Jasper arrived, said, “Excuse me, ladies,” and deposited my fresh drink. “I can see you’re having a good gossip, so I won’t intrude.”
Anna watched Jasper as he moved across the room. Mrs. Shaw said something to him, and he sat down near her. Anna turned back to me. “It’s about my dad.” She drew me a few paces away to a pair of chairs in a far corner of the room. “The postmortem on Mayhew is back.”
“I didn’t realize your father was doing it.”
Anna shook her head. “He didn’t, but the police surgeon is a friend. He stopped by to visit Dad this afternoon.” Her gaze went to Dr. Finch, who stood across the room. “They were in the garden, and I was in the drawing room. With the windows open, their voices carried. Once I heard . . . well, I couldn’t leave when I realized what they were talking about.” She fiddled with the beaded clip holding back her auburn hair. “And then the detective inspector arrived—oh, it’s all so complicated. I don’t know what to do. I heard about what happened at Archly Manor, how you proved your relative wasn’t involved in that—er—incident.” Her cold fingers clamped on my wrist. “I need you to do the same for Dad. If this gets out—if there are rumors—it will devastate him. His reputation—” She let go of my wrist and pressed her fingers to her lips for a moment as she fought to control her emotions. “A doctor’s reputation is everything. You must see that. He didn’t kill Mayhew. I know he didn’t.”
I choked on my drink. “Inspector Longly accused him of killing Mayhew?”
“No, nothing so straightforward. It was all hints and questions and subtle accusations.” Her gaze darted around the room. “Please don’t mention this to anyone.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
“It’s just so distressing. Dad’s putting up a good front tonight, but he’s been walking around shell-shocked since Inspector Longly left.”
Longly must have some new information that had led him to question Dr. Finch in that way. “What were the findings of the postmortem?”
“Inconclusive. There was a blow to the head, but the police surgeon couldn’t say definitively when it happened. It could have occurred before Mayhew fell or during the fall. The riverbed is rocky. But since they can’t rule out foul play, it makes the death suspicious. You see that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Inspector Longly will have to continue to investigate. But what does it have to do with your father?”
“They found a handwritten will in Mayhew’s cottage. Dad is the only beneficiary.”
“Oh my.”
“I knew you’d understand.” Her gaze whipped to Dr. Finch again, then back to me as she lowered her voice even more. “But no matter what Inspector Longly hinted at, even if Dad had known he was the beneficiary—which he didn’t—he’d never do anything to hurt anyone. It goes against everything he stands for—his whole nature.”
“Did your father know about the will?”
“No.” Her short hair brushed against her cheeks as she shook her head. “I’m sure he didn’t. Dad was so shocked, he couldn’t speak for a few moments.”
“I wonder why Mayhew made your father her beneficiary.”
“Longly read part of the will to Dad. Mayhew was grateful Dad had kept his—I mean, her—true identity secret.”
“The will was handwritten, you said?” I gazed across the room. Mr. and Mrs. Pearce were chatting with Lord and Lady Holt. “Why didn’t Mayhew have Mr. Pearce draw up the will?”
Anna shifted so that her back was to the room. “Between you and me, I don’t think Mr. Pearce is actually that . . . trustworthy. Maybe Mayhew didn’t have c
omplete faith in Mr. Pearce. There’ve been a few rumors about Mr. Pearce—that he left town in disgrace and had to come here. I hate to speak ill of someone without any basis, but that’s what the whispers about him have been.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me. I have the same feeling about him.”
“You do?”
“Yes, but I’ll tell you about that later.” So Mayhew had trusted Pearce to send off her manuscripts to Hightower Books but not to make a will.
“But you see where this leaves Dad, don’t you?” Anna gulped her cocktail. “It’s all a terrible muddle. How do you prove a negative? There’s no way to show Dad didn’t know about the will.”
“Then I suppose the best thing for your father to do is prove he wasn’t around when Mayhew died. Did the postmortem give a time of death?”
“Nothing very specific—between five and seven days ago.”
“But we know that Serena saw Mayhew on . . . let’s see . . . she said it was Wednesday morning. She saw her on the path, only a short distance away from where her body was found.” And the servants had said Mayhew hadn’t been seen in the village. “Mayhew must have died shortly after Serena saw her. That timing fits with the time of death estimate. I bet Longly will focus his attention on Wednesday morning. I think your father should document where he was that morning.”
“I suppose that’s the best course. And it should be possible . . . I think.” She stared into her empty glass for a moment, her gaze unfocused. “Yes, he had to go out to Birchwick Farm, and I drove him. Mrs. Birchwick went into labor. We were gone all morning. It’s a good distance away.” Anna’s head jerked up. “I’m sorry. I’ve been terribly rude. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
I’d debated whether or not I should mention the extra manuscript pages. Anna’s role as a ghostwriter was obviously a secret. Even Mr. Hightower didn’t know about it because surely he’d have gone in search of Anna if he’d known she existed. But now with the news about the postmortem being inconclusive and Dr. Finch being a beneficiary to Mayhew’s will, I couldn’t gloss over Anna’s ghostwriting. I didn’t see how I could ease into the topic, so I went for the straightforward approach. “How long have you been ghostwriting books for Mayhew?”
Anna was reaching to set down her glass. It clattered onto the table. “What?” She steadied the rocking glass. “I—don’t know—what you mean.”
“Anna, you gave me several pages of a draft manuscript along with the finished manuscript. The draft was marked up with notes between you and Mayhew. Your notes even discussed the next book. The one about Lady Eileen going to visit her friend on the yacht.”
Her pale skin went lighter, causing her freckles to stand out. Anna leaned onto the arm of her chair. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.” She fisted one hand together in her lap. “But I was in such a rush.”
I sat down beside her. “You were Mayhew’s ghostwriter.” I said it as a statement, not a question.
Anna nodded, then glanced around, seeming to remember we were in a room full of people.
“No one’s listening,” I said. “Was Murder on the Ninth Green the first book you wrote for her?”
She drew in a deep breath and relaxed her hand. “The second.”
“Oh my. How did it happen?”
“I did begin as a typist for him. I suppose he’d heard—I mean ‘she.’ I’ve thought of Mayhew as a man for so long, it’s hard to switch my brain over to the other pronoun.” She shifted so that she was facing me. “I suppose Mayhew had heard somehow that I did typing. One day about . . . let’s see, it would have been about two years ago, I received a note from—um—her asking if I would type her completed manuscript. I said of course I would. I was happy to have the work. She sent me the handwritten chapters, and I typed them up. At first, she sent a chapter every few days, but then the interval between the chapters got longer and longer. Finally, she sent a note saying she was stuck, and she’d send some material when she had something.”
Anna touched the clip in her hair, her fingers tracing nervously over the beads on it. “I had an idea that might work. I’d been typing up the story. I knew the characters and the scene where Mayhew was stuck. I sent her a note with a suggestion. She liked it and used it. She sent me the next chapter.”
Anna locked her fingers together in a tight clasp in her lap. “After that, we sent notes back and forth discussing what would happen. Then she hit another rough patch with the story. She said in one of her notes that I should give it a try. I didn’t know if she was serious or not, but I decided I’d do it. I typed up the scene and sent it off to her. Mayhew sent it back and said it was wonderful. From that point, my input gradually grew until I was writing the stories, and she was editing them. Mayhew was quite sick of Lady Eileen.”
“After only a few books?”
Anna shrugged. “I don’t know why. I think Mayhew wanted to write another story that wasn’t a mystery, but Hightower Books wasn’t interested in that.” The tension in Anna’s shoulders eased, and she leaned back against the cushion. “Oh, you don’t know how good it feels to speak about this. Keeping it all inside has been horrid.” Her face fell. “Of course, it only makes a complicated situation even worse. If Longly knew . . .”
“Then both you and your father would have a motive to want Mayhew gone.”
Her gaze flew up to my face. “What do you mean?”
“You’re the only person in Hadsworth who knew Mayhew was actually the author R.W. May. What if you killed her, so you could continue writing the series?”
“But how could I continue the series?” Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “I don’t have contacts at Hightower Books.”
“With the system Mayhew had set up of sending the manuscripts through Pearce, you wouldn’t need to know anyone at Hightower Books. What’s to keep you from writing the books, then sending them through Pearce? No one at Hightower Books would know the manuscripts weren’t actually coming from Mayhew.”
Anna drew away from me as if I had a contagious disease. “But that’s absurd. But that’s—I’d never—” She swallowed, then drew in an unsteady breath. “I didn’t even know Mayhew was dead.”
She was so agitated, I patted her hand. “I’m just saying what Inspector Longly will think, you know.” I kept my voice matter-of-fact as I said, “You did know about Mayhew sending the manuscripts to Hightower Books, didn’t you?” I went on in the same soothing tone. “When we talked at dinner last time, you said you’d dropped something at the solicitor for Mayhew, but then hesitated when you were about to mention what it was that you had given to Mr. Pearce. It was a manuscript, wasn’t it?”
Anna’s cheeks went rosy. “This is why I’m terrible at cards. I can’t bluff at all. Yes, Mayhew had me take the previous manuscript. We were down to the deadline. She wrote me a note, asking me to type up the last chapter, then bundle up the whole thing and drop it off with Mr. Pearce. Mayhew’s note said Pearce would see it got to Hightower Books. I thought it was a bit strange, but Mayhew was an odd fish, so I didn’t dwell on it too much.” Her words sped up, and she leaned forward. “I didn’t have anything to do with Mayhew’s death.”
“Of course you didn’t,” I said, but in reality, I had no idea whether or not that was true. I could see why Longly had spoken to Dr. Finch. Much of Mayhew’s life intersected with the doctor and his daughter. But one couldn’t come out and say something like that to an acquaintance. Fortunately, I’d had years of practice in schooling my expression so it didn’t show my true feelings. More often than not, I’d used the skill to mask boredom when some old codger droned on at dinner about hunting or long-ago military exploits. I’d rarely used it to keep questions about murder from showing in my face. Anna looked so anxious, I shifted the conversation. “What did the note Mayhew sent you say, exactly?”
At my conversational tone, Anna eased back into a more normal posture but still kept her distance from me as if she wasn’t sure she trusted me. “Which note?”
>
“The one saying Mayhew was leaving Hadsworth.”
“It said she was leaving and to carry on with the next book until she returned.”
“Was it handwritten?”
“No, typed.”
“Was that normal? Did Mayhew type her notes to you?”
“No. They were usually handwritten at the end of the manuscript drafts.” She swallowed. “Oh, I see. You’re saying it’s more evidence that could be used to show Mayhew was murdered. A typed note instead of a handwritten note. That’s good, isn’t it? It shows someone else made it look as if Mayhew would be coming back.”
Bower announced dinner, interrupting us. “It could be,” I said as Anna and I stood. “Let’s talk after dinner. Do you still have the note?”
“I suppose so. I usually put everything in the folio. I have one for each book. It should be there. I’ll look when I get home.”
We moved toward the drawing room door, but before we merged with the other dinner guests, Anna said, “No one else knows—about what I really did for Mayhew. You can’t tell anyone else. Not now. It would make things even worse.” She’d kept her voice low, but panic edged her words.
“No, I won’t,” I said, promising myself I would find some way to check if she and her father really were at Birchwick Farm last Wednesday morning. Perhaps one of the servants here knew of it. I could ask Janet or Bower how far away the farm was and about the birth of the baby—well, I could ask Janet. I couldn’t picture Bower chatting about the birth of a baby. But a new infant would surely be circulating as village news.
If Dr. Finch and Anna weren’t at the farm—well, lies voided a promise to keep a secret, especially since Mayhew’s death might be due to foul play. But I couldn’t give away Anna and her father, not after experiencing first-hand the awfulness of having people suspect you and your loved ones of murder.
