The gravel driveway curved around the house, probably making a full circle.
“Marcie said we should pull around the back,” Emma told Genny. “She’ll have the kitchen door open.”
“Servants’ entrance,” said Genny. “Got it.”
Genny shifted the van into low gear and steered it gently forward, sloshing through the puddles. She followed the drive toward the house’s east wing. Literally, they have an east wing, Emma thought, delighted despite her misgivings. She could not wait to see inside this place.
They rounded the first corner. She leaned forward, trying to get a clearer view of the grange’s details. She’d always loved dramatic old houses. Downton Abbey was her favorite show, right after The Great British Bake Off.
They rounded the second corner. The gardens came into view, and another gravel courtyard, and what looked like an old carriage house.
I wonder . . . Emma turned her gaze toward the bushes and flower beds beside the house. And she saw a lump on the edge of the drive nearest the house, right beside the drooping shrubbery.
“What’s that?”
“What!” Genny put on the brakes. This time something definitely squeaked. It also whined.
“What the . . .” Emma twisted around, trying to see into the little van’s cargo compartment. She saw the bins, and she saw the old plaid blanket and—one familiar, and muddy, paw.
“Oliver!” Emma shouted.
Oliver sat up. The blanket he’d hidden under slithered down to his shoulders.
“Sorry, Emma!”
“What am I going to do with you!” she wailed. “Genny . . .”
But Genny wasn’t paying attention to her. Genny was staring out the windscreen. “Emma,” she said quietly, “I think we’ve got other things to worry about.”
Emma stared out the window too. The lump she’d seen was a pale bundle, sprawled across the edge of the drive. It looked a bit like someone had dropped an industrial-sized sack of flour.
Except it was too big to be a flour sack. And the wrong shape.
“Oh no,” breathed Emma. She scrabbled with her seat belt and the door handle. “Oh, no, no, no, no!”
“Emma!” barked Oliver from the cargo compartment. “Emma, what’s wrong!”
But Emma was already out of the van and sprinting forward. But the faster she ran, the slower she seemed to be moving. It took forever to reach the bundle. It took even longer to kneel down, and turn it over, and see Marcie Cochrane’s eyes staring up into hers.
9
It only took a few frantic heartbeats to see that Marcie could not possibly be alive. Her face had been badly smashed in. Hoping against hope, Emma grappled at her cold wrist to try to find a pulse. As she did, she couldn’t help noticing Marcie was wearing the same clothes as when she’d shown up at the King’s Rest last night. They were soaked through. She must have lain there for hours. Emma’s stomach twisted tight. Marcie must have come right home and . . . and something. Emma stood up slowly, rubbing her palms on her slacks. She felt like the world had dissolved into a gray fog. There was nothing left but her and Marcie, and the rain.
“Oh my God!” gasped Genny and just like that, the world jerked back into place.
“It’s her! It’s her! Emma! Emma!” Oliver was barking. Emma reflexively stepped backward herding him away from the body.
“I’m calling the police!” Genny pulled her mobile out of her pocket.
But someone in the house must have already called, thought Emma, dazed. But, no, because they’d be out here . . .
Nobody inside this huge, beautiful Gothic house knew Marcie was dead yet.
“Up there!” Oliver jumped and pointed his muzzle at the sky. “Look! Look!”
Emma’s gaze snapped up. Overhead, on the third story, one diamond-paned window stood open. The long dark curtain flapped in the chilly breeze.
Reflexively she gauged the way the body lay.
“Oh.” She pressed her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Marcie.”
Oliver whined and huddled against Emma’s leg. Emma swallowed and wiped uselessly at her face.
Genny was nodding as she talked into her mobile. She ended the call and turned back to Emma. “Raj Patel is on the way.” Raj was Trevena’s one and only police constable. “The ambulance is coming too. We need . . .”
All at once Oliver whipped around. “Who’s there!” he barked.
Emma slapped her hand across her mouth to stifle the squeak, but when she turned, it was to see a shaggy, thoroughly wet, flop-eared, mostly brown dog of uncertain breed loping across the lawn. He must have caught scent or sight of something because he was still several meters away when he broke into a gallop, straight for Marcie’s corpse.
Emma tried to make a grab for him and missed. He wasn’t wearing a collar. The dog sniffed at the body and then plumped down on his hindquarters, lifted his muzzle and howled to the sky.
This of course set Oliver barking again. Any words he might have had were entirely lost to the pure emotional need of letting the world know something was terribly wrong.
And the world answered.
The grange’s side door flew open and a pale, dark-haired man in khaki trousers and a yellow polo shirt stormed down the steps.
“What the hell is going on out here?” he demanded. “Dash! Quiet!”
Somewhat to Emma’s surprise the mutt obeyed.
The man turned to glower at Emma, but the effect was spoiled by the fact that he kept having to blink against the rain falling into his eyes.
“Now who in the—?” he began, but Genny interrupted.
“Frank!” Genny started forward, arms spread like she wanted to herd him back into the house. “Oh, Frank, I’m so sorry!”
“What for? What?” But then he saw the body, and all the color drained out of his face. “Oh my God. Marcie? Marcie!”
He dashed toward her, splashing straight through the puddles.
“No, don’t!” Emma ran forward to try to put herself between the man—Frank—and the body. “I’m so sorry, but she’s dead.”
“Dead!” He reeled backward.
“We can’t touch anything. I’m really, really sorry.”
“But that’s my sister!” Frank shouted. Now Emma could see the resemblance. To Marcie and to Daphne. This man had a broad build and a broad face. His thick brows framed the same dramatic brown eyes.
“Just who the hell are you?” he demanded of Emma.
“This is Emma Reed, Frank,” said Genny. “And we need to get inside, okay?”
“We can’t just leave her there in the rain!”
Emma winced. She understood. It felt indecent.
“We have to,” said Genny gently. “Just for now. The ambulance is on its way. Please, Frank.” Genny gestured toward the open window in the top story.
He looked, then swallowed hard, wiping at his face.
“Come on, Frank,” said Genny gently. “Let’s get inside.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right, okay. You . . .” He blinked at Emma. “You’d better come in too.”
“Thanks.” Emma turned to the dogs. “Come on, Oliver. Bring Dash.”
Oliver got to his feet, shaking himself. “Dash, come on, Dash,” he barked.
The bigger, older dog woofed heavily and didn’t move. But Oliver, displaying all his tenacity, not to mention his herding instincts, stuck his long nose right under the other dog’s bum. Dash woofed, offended, but he did stand up. He looked, Emma thought, to be some sort of pointer-collie mix, with a milk-chocolate brown coat and random splashes and spots of white.
“This way, this way.” Oliver nudged the dog toward the door. “Come on. Emma says we need to be inside. This way.”
Reluctantly, Dash responded to Oliver’s promptings and let himself be persuaded into the house.
“Good boys,”
Emma murmured as she followed the dogs inside.
Emma found herself in a fairly modest foyer with a floor of black-and-white tiles. Obviously, this space had been intended for use by servants back in the day. There were umbrellas in a stand by the door, along with coats on hooks and a row of galoshes and Wellingtons. A plain wooden stairway rose on the left and a padded green door opened to the right. Ahead of them stretched a windowless hallway, with dark wooden paneling up to the chair rail. Above that, the plaster walls were painted a deep minty green. At the very far end Emma could just glimpse the grander entry hall.
Emma shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Despite the hallway, and the door open to the rain, the little foyer was quickly filling with the smell of wet dog. The big mutt, Dash, slunk to Frank’s side and crouched there, head and ears drooping in dejection.
Frank stepped away from the dog. Emma tried not to frown. Who stepped away from a sad dog?
“Genny.” Frank wiped at his face. “You said you called the ambulance?”
“Yes. They said they’d be here in just about fifteen minutes. The police are coming with them.”
“The police!” Frank exclaimed. “What for?”
Emma and Genny glanced at each other. “You know they’ll have to look around, Frank,” said Genny.
Frank turned a sickly green. “Oh, God. Yes, well, of course, no, but . . .” he stammered.
He didn’t get any further. Footsteps clattered overhead on the stairway. Everyone’s attention jerked around, including the dogs’. Oliver ducked forward, putting himself between Emma and any potential new threat. Dash was on his feet too, all alert.
“It’s Running Lady!” barked Oliver.
And so it was. Daphne thudded down the stairs. She had on black leggings and a loose pink tunic today.
“Dad?” she said as she saw Frank. “Did you find out what the . . . Oh, hi, Genny, and . . . Emma, isn’t it?” she said as she registered their presence. “I didn’t know you were here already. Where’s Pearl?” She stopped on the lowest stair and looked from one of them to the other. “What’s wrong?”
“Um, Daphne.” Her father covered her hand where it rested on the newel. “Sweetheart, I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
“What do you mean an accident?” She stared past Frank to Emma and Genny. “What’s going on?”
“Come on, I . . . we need to find your mother too and Gus and—”
“No!” Daphne snatched her hand away. “We are not going anywhere! You’re telling me what’s going on!”
That was when they all heard the sirens. Daphne glowered at her father, and then she jumped right off the stair and charged for the outside door. Oliver and Dash both yipped and ducked sideways. Emma and Genny fell back. Daphne ran out into the rain.
Frank swore and bolted after her.
She hadn’t gone more than two meters when she stopped and pressed both hands over her mouth.
“Oh my God,” she breathed against her palms. “Oh my God. That’s . . . that’s Aunt Marcie!”
“Daphne.” Frank caught up with his daughter and took hold of her gently. “I’m really, really sorry. I . . .”
Daphne ignored him. “Where’s Mum?” she demanded. “I need to find Mum.”
“I . . .” began Frank again. But Daphne pushed past him and ran inside, barreling down the corridor like nothing was going to stop her. Frank followed as far as the threshold, and stopped, swaying uncertainly.
“I . . .” He swallowed. “I don’t know what . . .”
“Go after her,” said Emma. “We’ll meet the police.”
“Yeah, yeah, thanks.” Frank strode into the dimly lit corridor after his daughter.
It was only a minute later when the village police car, a tiny electric vehicle, came whizzing up the drive with the ambulance right behind.
10
After someone died, Emma knew, there tended to be a lot of activity, but not for everybody. Right now, all she, Genny, Oliver and Dash could do was stand and watch.
The two women and the two dogs clustered in the grange’s side doorway; and all peered out together to see the EMTs confirm with PC Raj Patel that Marcie was dead. Once that was done, Raj directed them to help him set up a small tent, made from parts pulled out of the back of his car, over her.
The dogs, perhaps showing more sense than their humans, soon tired of the show and retreated to a corner of the foyer. They snuffled and nipped in a sort of desultory version of the usual canine getting-to-know-you ritual and then finally curled up together. Emma and Genny, though, stayed where they were and watched as PC Raj looked up at the open window. They watched him make notes and talk on his radio and take pictures with his phone.
Emma couldn’t help noticing how the body lay right at the edge of the gravel drive, and wondering about the open window overhead. Marcie must have fallen out and landed badly. Emma swallowed. The whole scene was reminding her of something. Several somethings, in fact, and none of them were any good.
It wasn’t all standing around, though. Death also required phone calls. Genny called her husband, Martin. Emma called Angelique.
“Oh, poor Marcie,” Angelique breathed when Emma gave her the news. “Are you okay, Emma?”
“Yes, yes, fine,” Emma lied. Angelique’s silence radiated disbelief, even through the phone. “Well, not really, but I will be. I’ve got to stay here for a while, but Genny’s here too. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“All right. I’ll tell Pearl. Oh, dear.” Emma could picture Angelique pressing her fingertips against her eyelids the way she did when laboring over a particularly difficult work schedule. “I knew Marcie had troubles, but I never thought . . . not this.”
“It was some kind of accident,” said Emma. “I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Angelique said seriously.
They hung up and Emma stared out at the rain. She was so lost in thought, she didn’t notice Genny come stand right beside her.
“So, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Genny quietly.
“I’m thinking that window overhead was big enough for a person to fall out of.”
“Oh, were you?” There was not a lot of confidence in Genny’s words.
“Yes,” said Emma firmly. “I’m thinking Marcie must have been opening the window, or leaning on it, and something gave way and she fell.”
“And had bad luck on how she landed,” said Genny. “Because, I mean, it isn’t that high up. She could have just as easily been hurt instead of killed.”
“Bad luck happens,” said Emma. There might have been a big rock, or, or something.
Only she hadn’t seen large rocks in the drive when she rolled Marcie over.
That still doesn’t mean anything.
I hope you’re right, she heard Angelique say again. Angelique plainly thought this tragedy might not be an accident.
So what does she think? Emma sucked in a slow breath. Well, what are you thinking?
Emma remembered Marcie as she’d last seen her; the way Marcie had smiled so sadly over her shoulder and the too cheerful singsong way she’d said her goodbye. The way she’d talked about wanting to make sure things were taken care of, and that everything was perfect. Uncertainty nibbled at the edges of Emma’s thoughts.
“You know, it’s normal, when somebody . . . goes . . . out a window, you just naturally wonder whether they jumped.”
“Or were pushed,” said Genny.
“Genny!”
Genny held up both hands. “Don’t blame me. You were thinking it too. I could tell.”
“I was not!” protested Emma. “Well, okay, I was, but that’s only because . . . because . . .”
Emma felt her frown deepen. There was something nagging her about that conversation with Marcie. But it seemed to be stuck in the back of her mind and
she couldn’t dig it out.
“Because why?” asked Genny.
Emma shook her head hard. “What I don’t understand is why didn’t anyone find her before now? She’s been there a good long while. Why wasn’t anybody in the house looking for her?”
Before Genny could answer, Oliver got up from his spot beside Dash and trotted over to them. He also shook himself, scattering water everywhere.
“Dash is sad,” Oliver told Emma. “He liked Marcie Rain Lady. There aren’t always a lot of humans here, he says, and she was his favorite.”
“Oh, Oliver.” Emma bent down and hugged him. He was wet, but so was she, so it didn’t matter. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Genny touched Emma’s shoulder. Emma straightened up and saw PC Raj was trudging up the drive.
Raj was a tall, wiry young man. His grandfather had emigrated to Great Britain from New Delhi as a boy back in the fifties and had become the first constable of Southeast Asian heritage in Cornwall. Emma knew Raj as a serious person who regularly took prizes in the Cornwall bike marathons, flew kites on the beach with his little nephews, and loved lemon poppy seed cake.
“Emma, Genny,” Raj greeted them. Rain streamed off his plastic-covered hat and bright yellow raincoat. “I’m sorry we’re going to have to ask you to wait in the house awhile. I’ve had to call for a detective.”
“Oh,” breathed Emma. “Oh, I mean, surely, it must have been an . . . accident?” It was obviously a very old house. Things broke, including windows.
“We don’t know anything yet,” Raj told her. “I do have a few questions, though.”
Emma and Genny both steeled themselves as Raj pulled out his notebook. “Can you describe the scene when you arrived?”
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 6
