“Where’s Charles now, Carrie?”
“He’s in custody. We read him his rights, but he waived them. He said he was ready to tell us what happened and didn’t need an attorney to be present. After he wrote and signed the confession, we arrested him, filed the complaint, and he’s now sitting in a cell waiting to be arraigned. He told me he intends to plead guilty to avoid the case going to a grand jury and to avoid a trial, although once he retains legal counsel that person may get him to change his mind. He’s scheduled to appear before the judge tomorrow, and since he’s already agreed to surrender his passport we won’t oppose bail, but I wish there were a way to release him tonight. But that’s not going to happen unless someone else confesses pretty quickly.”
She changed the subject. “How are things going there?”
“It’s been a long and very interesting day. I’ll give you the full details when I see you tomorrow. I should be pleased at Charles’ confession, but there’s also a possibility he’s protecting the real killer because he’s already in ill health and willing to take the fall for that person. What I’d like to do, if you agree, is to informally keep the investigation open and see if anything turns up. I’ll continue to do it pro bono. Unless I’m successful, Charles may spend the rest of his life in prison.”
On his way back to Toronto, Ed phoned Pamela Huntsman. She didn’t answer, so he left a long message hoping that he would be able to visit with her the next day before he and Annie headed back to Lighthouse Cove.
When Ed walked into the hotel room, Annie, swathed chin to ankle in a thick white terry cloth robe, greeted him with a glass of wine and a big kiss. “I had a fabulous day,” she sighed, “and just got out of a very warm and fragrant bubble bath in that huge soaking tub in the bathroom. Did you have a bad day? You don’t look very happy.”
“I’d rather hear about your day first. There’s some breaking news with the case, but I can tell you about it over dinner. And by the way, you look amazing. Your skin is glowing, you smell great, and you did something to your hair.”
“Yes, my dear, and that is why my day was so fabulous. I started off with lunch at the café here in the hotel; then went for a walk. My first stop was to a salon where I got a manicure and pedicure and was coerced into getting a new hairdo,” she fluffed at her short, choppy hairdo. “Expensive, but well worth it, as you can see. I then strolled into a couple art galleries, saw some interesting pieces, but none that fit our décor or budget, and then browsed in some very fashionable boutiques, most of which displayed outfits more suited to anorexic 20-year-olds than someone my age.”
“You didn’t get a new outfit for tonight? I thought that was part of your mission.”
“Well, yes I did,” Annie responded, looking absolutely delighted. “I discovered Olivia’s, a wonderful boutique located about three blocks from the hotel. It carried a whole array of incredible clothing that was not only interesting and different, but also designed for us older women. I walked in, told the saleswoman what I was looking for, and within minutes purchased a stunning and very age appropriate outfit to wear to dinner tonight. You will see the finished product after I get dressed.”
She kissed Ed again. He smiled. “Annie, I’m so glad you had fun. I’m going to take a shower and change my clothes.”
Chapter 37
Forty-five minutes later, Annie and Ed emerged from the elevator and walked through the hotel lobby to the street. Ed thought Annie looked sensational in a black velvet long-sleeved tunic with black satin cuffs and neckline and black silk pants. Her accessories included jet pear-shaped earrings rimmed with sparkling crystals and a wide jet cuff. High-heeled black leather boots completed the look. She’d donned an ankle-length black cashmere coat with a faux mink shawl collar for the short walk to the restaurant.
Under a double-breasted camel-hair overcoat, Ed wore a dark suit, oxford blue shirt and yellow and blue patterned tie. Annie told him he looked like a very distinguished version of an aging James Bond.
Snow had started to fall, big, wet fluffy flakes that caught the amber glow of the street lights and then melted into small puddles on the sidewalk and street. The restaurant, located on the first floor of a four-story brownstone that nestled cozily between two imposing multi-storied red brick and limestone skyscrapers, glowed inside with white tablecloths, crystal chandeliers and low lighting provided by pewter and glass wall sconces. On each table, a small, square crystal vase held a shimmering, ivory-colored votive candle.
The maître’d welcomed the pair, led them to their table, and pulled out chairs to seat them. Within seconds their server greeted them and after reciting the evening’s specials took their drink orders.
Annie requested a glass of white burgundy, and Ed, a Talisker, his favorite single malt scotch. While waiting for the escargot in puff pastry they’d ordered as an appetizer, Annie said, “Okay, now spill. What happened today?”
Ed quickly summarized his interview with Jennifer Ashwani and reported that the university possessed the authentic map and a manuscript that had been discovered at an architectural dig. She gave him a copy although he’d been told little about its contents.
“That’s so exciting, Ed! I’d like to read it when you’re finished. I may be able to weave some of the information into our own history and purchase some copies of the manuscript to sell in the gift store.”
Ed then told her about his conversation with Angelica Hawthorn and Charles’ confession.
“Carrie and I think he could be lying and covering for someone, but unless we can prove it and find out who really killed her, Charles is likely to spend the rest of his life in jail. I’ll give you all the salient details tomorrow on our drive home, but if you’re okay with it, I’d really like to keep tonight for ourselves.”
“I’m fine with that, but poor Charles.” Annie sighed. “It’s never made sense to me that he would murder Emily, and I’m glad you and Carrie are at least now willing to consider that someone else may have done it. I think he’s covering for someone, too. But who?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it? It may take some time, but I promise you I’ll continue the investigation until we find out one way or the other.”
The couple sat in silence while they ate the escargot, which was followed by an amuse bouche lemon and thyme sorbet. They had ordered a bottle of Cotes du Rhone and sipped it slowly, while Ed savored his meal of braised lamb with winter vegetables, risotto and green salad and Annie waxed poetic over the chicken Marengo, creamy polenta and a salad of greens, roasted beets, candied pecans and sections of fresh mandarin orange. A steaming double espresso for Ed and a decaf cappuccino for Annie rounded out their dinner, both too full to sample the tantalizing array of desserts and cheeses presented for their purview on a silver platter.
Once back at the hotel, Ed changed into a long-sleeved cotton tee shirt and flannel sleeping pants, and with the manuscript in hand was just getting ready to sit in one of a pair of easy chairs facing the television when Annie emerged from the bathroom wearing a floor-length silver-colored satin nightgown with a low-cut bodice and spaghetti straps.
“Wow!” Ed whistled as she pirouetted before him and then gave him a coquettish wink of the eye. He laughed. “I think I’ll read the manuscript some other time,” he said, guiding her to the bed. “After all these years,” he said throatily, “you still knock my socks off.”
Many minutes later Annie sighed and stretched. “Wow, is right,” she gave a husky laugh. “And you, after all these years, are still the sexiest man I know.”
“Much sexier than James Bond,” she murmured. Ed grinned, stroked her hair and pulled her close. Nestling like spoons, they both fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.
Chapter 38
The next morning, Ed and Annie decided to take a faster route home by crossing over the Rainbow Bridge near Buffalo. They had just passed through customs when Ed’s cell phone rang. He switched to Blue Tooth and answered it. “This is Ed.”
“Mr. DeCler
yk, this is Pam Huntsman. I’m so sorry I didn’t return your call yesterday. I taught three classes, had a faculty meeting and then rushed home to feed my two children while my husband picked up the babysitter so he and I could attend the parent-teacher conferences at their school. By the time we got home it was after nine, and I didn’t want to disrupt your evening. Are you still in Toronto?”
“No. We’re on our way back to Lighthouse Cove. Did you listen to my voice message?”
“Yes, and I’m happy to help you any way I can. What’s the best way to do this?”
“Can I call you later this afternoon?”
“That’s not going to work. I have classes and meetings all day, plus a faculty reception tonight. How about between 9:30 and 10:30 tomorrow morning? You can call me on this line, which is the one Angelica gave you. I’m quite curious about this whole situation and will do anything I can to help, especially if the results mean exonerating Charles. He mentored me, and I have to say he’s the last person I’d suspect as a murderer.”
“None of us wants him to be guilty, Pamela, and please, call me Ed. Any info you can give will be much appreciated.”
In the meantime, Carrie, acting on a hunch, had decided to call the crime lab to double check if they might have missed finding paint flecks, possibly from the radiator, in Emily’s scalp. The tech reiterated that there was nothing in the report indicating anything other than the cast iron splinters. But he had a thought.
“Maybe you want to go over to the museum and check that radiator again,” he suggested. “Maybe it was never painted, or the paint could have been chipped off where your victim fell against it.”
“Good idea. Ben gave me the code to the keypad before he left, so I’ll go over right now and check things out. I’m sure Annie won’t mind.”
Several minutes later, Carrie called the tech back. “The radiator is painted, so it’s not what Emily fell against that knocked her out. The light in that office isn’t very bright, and the office is also very small so maybe Charles thought she hit her head on it when she fell but she didn’t, and when she fell in the basement she fell back against the scuttle instead of being hit from behind, as we surmised.”
She sighed. “The discrepancies between Charles’ story and our assumptions notwithstanding, it looks like Charles’ confession will hold up despite our suspicion that he’s covering for the real killer. I’ll call Ed and let him know.”
Before she called Ed, Carrie questioned Charles once more, trying to get him to talk about the coal scuttle, but even leading questions didn’t yield the information she was hoping for. Charles insisted that he had pushed Emily and that he believed she had hit her head on the radiator.
Ed and Annie had stopped for lunch in Rochester when Carrie’s call came in. After hanging up, he told Annie about their conversation, the details of Charles’ confession and that he would be arraigned on a charge of second degree murder. She looked puzzled.
“There’s more than one thing about all of this that just doesn’t make sense, Ed. Now for sure I know he’s lying.”
“Why is that?”
She told him, and he responded, “I don’t get it.”
“Well, neither do I. Something is very off here.”
“Even if he’s not guilty of killing Emily, Annie, he’s constructed a believable confession. I wish the outcome had been different, but what you just told me isn’t enough to prove his innocence unless I can find out who really killed Emily.”
Annie, pensive, sat in silence on the ride home to Lighthouse Cove from Rochester. Later, she declined Ed’s offer of a glass of wine and asked him if he minded fending for himself for dinner. For most of the evening she sat in the living room staring at the fire.
Ed knew how fond Annie was of Charles and that she was upset and terribly disappointed. When ready, she’d talk to him, but for now she needed to be left alone so she could work out her feelings. Ed picked up the manuscript and carried it into his study where he put on his reading glasses, settled into the leather recliner and began to read.
Chapter 39
From Thomas Battleforth’s Manuscript:
I was born and raised on an estate northwest of London where my parents served as gamekeeper and governess for Lord and Lady Hollingsworth. A generous man, the lord allowed me at a very young age to join the children, Jane and Alden, in their studies. I learned to read, write and do math sums, and my early years were happy and peaceful. My life changed shortly after my ninth birthday.
On a late afternoon in November while walking through the forest, my father, Peter, was attacked by a wild boar that gored him through his belly. No amount of care could save him, and in just a few days he left our known world and went to heaven to be with our Savior. My mother, Lydia, and I grieved sorely for him, but the lord and lady assured us that our place with the family was secure, and our life continued much as it had before, but without the strong and caring presence of our loving husband and father.
Several years passed in this manner when one day, Lord Hollingsworth announced that a cousin from Cornwall, Viscount Evensong, would be joining the family for a fortnight. The staff worked hard to air out the guest and servants’ quarters to make them ready as he would be bringing with him his household staff and his groomsman.
He appeared on a sunny April morning. His carriage safely sheltered, horses liveried and trunk of belongings taken to his quarters to be unpacked, he walked through the main hall to greet the household staff who had assembled to welcome him to the estate. That he was a handsome man could not be missed. He stood tall and slender, dressed in trim pants, a billowing waistcoat and short jacket, his dark hair pulled back and held against his neck by a ribbon. We were told later by some of the kitchen staff that he had not yet wed. We guessed his age at about 30.
He stopped in front of my mother and smiled, his pale gray eyes shining and the dimple in his chin widening. “Now aren’t you a lovely thing,” he said, taking her hand, his eyes sweeping the length of her body. “What may I call you?”
My mother, indeed very comely with shining blond hair, large, dark-lashed hazel eyes and a trim figure replied, “I’m the governess, sir, and my name is Lydia Battleforth. This is my son, Thomas.” She put her arm around me and nudged me toward him. I bowed as I took his proffered hand. “Why, aren’t you a strapping young man,” he exclaimed. “How many years are you?”
“Almost thirteen, sir,” I replied.
“And where is your father, Thomas? Will you soon be joining him in his service?”
“My father was the gamekeeper here, sir. He died. He was gored by a boar.”
“Then soon it will be time for you to leave your mother and find service elsewhere,” he remarked.
For some reason, a chill settled upon me, but I replied, “I suppose so, my lord.”
He smiled again at my mother before moving down the line. A deeper sense of foreboding than I’d ever felt went through me.
When my parents met and fell in love, Lord Hollingsworth gave his permission for them to marry and allowed my mother to live with my father in the gamekeeper’s cottage, a humble dwelling with a sitting room, cooking hearth and two private rooms for sleeping. It was located a short distance from the children’s quarters in the west wing of the manor house.
After my father’s death, my mother and I were relocated to new quarters inside the house with a smaller sitting room and two curtained sleeping alcoves––my mother’s the larger of the two. Two large windows at one end looked down upon the rose garden, a door with no lock gave privacy from the hallway and to the back stairs that led to the lower floors and the kitchen, where we now took our meals with the other help.
One evening after we retired, I heard floor boards creaking in the hall, and then the door opened. Startled, I looked out from my bed and saw a tall, thin figure moving stealthily toward me and then felt a hand on my mouth.
“If you say as much as a word about this, I’ll make sure you never spend a day longer at this est
ate. You’ll end up in gaol, convicted of thievery. Now close your eyes tightly and pretend that nothing is amiss.” The voice I knew was that of our guest, the Viscount Evensong.
My mother had been sleeping deeply. I could hear her regular breathing, but then she gasped, and I heard her struggle against the covers. The viscount grunted and thrashed for a few minutes and then went still. I heard him tell my mother that if she valued her life and mine that she would never say a word about what had occurred. Then he took his leave. My mother, wraithlike, continued to look after the lord and lady’s children during the day, the viscount’s unwanted visits continuing each night.
Several days after the viscount’s arrival, Lady Hollingsworth asked my mother to join her after breakfast in her morning room. “My dear,” said the lady, expressing concern, “you have not been looking well. Are you perhaps ill?”
“No, my lady, just weary. I will be fine.”
“Well then, make sure you take to your sleeping quarters earlier for the next couple of nights,” she advised, gliding away.
At the end of a fortnight, the viscount took his leave, but my mother never recovered from his nightly attacks. Ashamed, she would not look directly at me, and she walked about hunched over like an old woman, pale and wan. Then the sickness began. Not able to eat, she grew thin, and when questioned by the other staff or the lord and lady, she made excuses which I knew to be fabrications, but which they chose at first to believe. I had seen rutting animals and heard the noises they made while mating, and I correctly guessed what had occurred between my mother and Viscount Evensong and that she was with child.
After a few months the sickness stopped, and she began to gain weight, most of it in her belly. I feared for her, and one day my fear was realized when Lady Hollingsworth called my dear mother into her withdrawing room. I stood outside the door and eavesdropped.
Murder in the Museum_Edmund DeCleryk Mysteries Page 13
