Allow me to remind you that these are the same women who truly believe in the widow’s curse.
“They may give lip service to the widow’s curse,” I said, “but they paint a picture of Annabelle as an upwardly mobile serial killer—a social climber who used murder to get ahead.” I shrugged. “Who’s to say she isn’t?”
Hayley Calthorp’s gran, for one. I might also point out that there were no eyewitnesses to any of the deaths attributed to Annabelle.
“The lack of eyewitnesses cuts both ways,” I insisted. “No one saw her commit the murders, but no one can swear that she didn’t commit them, either. The only thing I know for sure is that four men who knew Annabelle lie dead and buried in St. Leonard’s churchyard. Four men, Dimity! That’s a high rate of mysterious deaths for one small town, isn’t it? It’s also possible that Zach Trotter is pushing up rosebushes because of her. Their ghosts may not have chased Annabelle away from Craven Manor, but guilt might have.”
Then go there.
“Go where?” I said blankly.
Go to St. Leonard’s, of course. If the men were buried there, the church is bound to have records of their funerals. Find out if the dates fall within the parameters set by Minnie and her chums. There must be a local newspaper. Dig into the archives for stories about the men’s deaths. The library may hold records of the coroner’s inquests. The Old Cowerton constabulary will certainly have case files. You’ve heard nothing but rumors since you arrived in Old Cowerton, my dear. It’s time for you to gather facts.
Having spent part of my youth working among rare books, I was unfazed by the prospect of burrowing through dusty files.
“Research, not rumors,” I said thoughtfully. “Seems obvious, now that you’ve spelled it out. Why didn’t I think of it?”
I’m sure you would have.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “And thanks for the game plan. I’d rather dig through archives than dig up rosebushes.”
A prudent preference, as the former is less likely to get you arrested than the latter.
“I’ll go to St. Leonard’s tomorrow,” I said. “Bree can look after Bess while I tackle—” I broke off at the sound of a gentle knock on the hallway door, then whispered, “Gotta go, Dimity. I’ll let you know what I find.”
I’m sure you’ll find something!
I stashed the journal in my shoulder bag and ran to open the door. Francesco stood in the hallway, clutching a small cream-colored envelope.
“Hello, Francesco,” I said. “We spent the day with Minnie Jessop. She and her friends told us about the others.”
“I’m so sorry, madam,” Francesco said, his brow furrowing. “I hope it did not upset you.”
“As a matter of fact, it did,” I said, “but I’m sometimes too impressionable for my own good.”
“So are we all, madam.” He handed the envelope to me. “A message for you, delivered by hand to the front desk not ten minutes ago. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Not at the moment,” I said. “We’ll order dinner as soon as Bree—” I broke off again as I spotted Bree sauntering unhurriedly up the corridor, clad in the hotel’s robe and floppy slippers.
“You look relaxed,” I commented when she was within earshot.
“You really must let Mariana work her magic on you before we leave, Lori,” she said. “I feel like a bowl of melted ice cream. Hi, Francesco,” she went on, stopping beside him. “Did Lori tell you that we know about the others?”
“She did, madam,” he replied mournfully. “I hope Mrs. Jessop’s stories did not disturb you.”
“Do I look disturbed?” Bree asked with a drowsy titter.
“Not at all,” he said, smiling down at her. He assured us that dinner would be served at our convenience, bowed to each of us, and strode down the corridor toward the lobby.
Bree followed me into the sitting room, gazing curiously at the envelope.
“Fan mail?” she asked, sprawling lazily on the sofa.
“I’ll let you know,” I replied. I opened the envelope and withdrew a handwritten note.
“If it’s an invitation to another Sunnyside tea party, I’m in,” Bree said languidly. “Minnie’s plum cake was superb.”
“It’s an invitation,” I said, “but it isn’t from Minnie Jessop.”
I passed the note to Bree and waited for her reaction.
“Good grief,” she said, sitting bolt upright. “We’ve been summoned to Craven Manor!”
Seventeen
Our “summons” was, in fact, a politely worded invitation to brunch written on deckle-edged notepaper by a woman named Penelope Moorecroft. I dialed the phone number scrawled at the bottom of the page, hoping to find out who Penelope Moorecroft was, but the voice that accepted our RSVP was decidedly male, formal, and reticent. I ended the call none the wiser.
“Butler, I think,” I said in response to Bree’s inquiring look. “A tight-lipped successor to William Walker May.”
“Penelope Moorecroft must be the current lady of the manor,” she said. “A cook or a poor relation wouldn’t have the clout to invite us to brunch. Why do you suppose she wants to meet us?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but if she lays any more corpses at Annabelle’s feet, I’ll need a sedative.”
I filed Aunt Dimity’s proposed research project under “later” and got on with our evening routine, but as I read Wuthering Heights aloud to Bess after dinner, I couldn’t help wondering if Edwin Craven roamed the halls at Craven Manor in the same way that Heathcliff’s unquiet spirit roamed the moors.
—
I didn’t have to consult our map or rely on Francesco for directions to Craven Manor. The estate could be seen for miles. A pair of wrought-iron gates blocking the drive swung open after a pair of cameras scanned the Range Rover, and we entered a green, sloping landscape dotted with extremely woolly sheep. Bess mooed at them enthusiastically.
“Cotswold Lions,” I said.
“Pardon?” said Bree.
“Cotswold Lions,” I repeated, waving a hand at the flock. “It’s a rare breed of sheep. Their wool made the Cotswolds rich until the middle of the eighteenth century, when the local wool industry began to go belly-up. They’re why so many small towns in the Cotswolds have such magnificent churches. The so-called wool churches were built by fabulously wealthy landowners whose fortunes were based almost entirely on Cotswold Lions.”
“They’re adorable,” said Bree. “I prefer rich people who spend their money on preserving rare breeds to those who fritter it away on handbags, high heels, and hairdos. If our mystery hostess is the lady of the manor, I already have a high opinion of her.”
Craven Manor reminded me of my father-in-law’s home, Fairworth House. Both were solid, respectable Georgian mansions, and though Craven Manor was quite a bit larger than Fairworth, it was made from the same golden Cotswold stone and possessed the same aura of timeless tranquillity.
Bluebell Cottage, I thought, would fit easily in one wing of the manor. It struck me that Annabelle would have needed a very good reason to leave such a splendid and spacious estate for a tiny cottage overlooking a village green.
The wide flight of stone steps leading to the front door had been retrofitted with a wooden ramp, possibly to accommodate a wheelchair. As I wheeled the all-terrain pram up the ramp, I wondered if Annabelle had installed it for her ailing husband.
We were ushered into the entrance hall by a butler whose voice I recognized from the RSVP call. He was less haughty in person, though no more forthcoming.
“Mrs. Moorecroft will be with you shortly,” he informed us. “May I take your coats?”
As Bree and I doffed our jackets, I allowed my gaze to travel from the entrance hall’s sweeping marble staircase to its oversized chandelier. It was all too easy to picture Mabel’s cousin Florence skidding
to a halt on the marble floor while Annabelle gazed down from the landing. When I forced myself to glance at the spot where Edwin’s lifeless body would have lain, I felt the same queasy feeling I’d felt when I’d seen Sunnyside’s foyer.
A door at the back of the hall opened and a tall, white-haired woman with piercing blue eyes strode toward us. She wore an elegant woven wool tunic over black leggings and black leather ankle boots. Her wrists were adorned with chunky gold bracelets that set off her long, slender fingers, and her short hair had been expertly styled to flatter her high cheekbones and her aquiline nose.
“I guess some people can afford nice clothes and rare sheep,” Bree murmured.
“Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” the woman said, coming to a halt before us. “I was delayed by a crisis in the kitchen. What an enchanting child!” she exclaimed, bending to peer at Bess. “Which one of you is her mother?”
“That would be me,” I said. “I’m Lori Shepherd and she’s Bess Willis.”
“And I’m Bree Pym,” said Bree.
“Of course you are,” said the woman, straightening. “I’m Penelope Moorecroft, but I do hope you’ll call me Penny. Thank you so much for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting us,” said Bree. “We were admiring your sheep.”
“Were you?” said Penny. “They’re film stars, as it happens. Directors borrow the flock to add verisimilitude to period pieces. We have a handsome herd of Friesians as well, but they’re in the top pasture today.” She touched a finger to her lips, then said, “I’m afraid we may be some time over brunch. I wonder if Bess might be happier in the nursery? It has every toy she could possibly desire, a fully stocked pantry, and best of all, it has Nanny Sutton.” She turned to extend an arm to a young woman who trotted down the grand staircase to join us.
Nanny Sutton bore no resemblance whatsoever to the mental image I’d formed of her. Her hair was long, dark, and curly instead of short, straight, and gray, and instead of a starched uniform, she wore a cheerful red cotton pullover, blue jeans, and sneakers. I doubted that she was more than a year or two past her twenties, but she exuded an air of competent good humor I wished I could emulate. When Bess mooed at her, she mooed back.
“You work for the White Hart, don’t you?” I asked her.
“I’m a freelance nanny,” she explained. “The White Hart is only one of my clients.”
“Nanny Sutton has a client list Mary Poppins would envy,” Penny said. “She has reams of qualifications and nothing but the most glowing recommendations. Your daughter would be in the safest of safe hands.”
“It’s a tempting offer,” I said to the nanny, “but I’d like to see how you and Bess get along before I turn her over to you.”
“If Bess were my daughter, I’d do the same thing,” said Nanny Sutton. “May I?”
She reached tentatively for the pram’s handles and I let her take them.
“Lovely,” said Penny. “Shall we join the others?”
I was beginning to twitch every time someone uttered the phrase “the others,” but I joined the parade as Bree, Nanny Sutton, and Bess followed our hostess down a central corridor that led to a capacious conservatory attached to the rear of the house. William Walker May could have grown a thousand Amazon lilies in it, but I suspected that his little greenhouse had been demolished after his death as a mark of respect and, perhaps, to erase a troubling memory. When I looked through the glass walls, I saw no sign of it.
There were no flowers in the conservatory. Instead, it held a scattering of feathery ferns and abstract wooden sculptures. I wasn’t a huge fan of abstract art, but the sculptures’ curving forms appealed to me. They seemed as organic as the ferns.
A wave of déjà vu crashed into me when I saw four white-haired women seated at a round glass-topped table in the center of the conservatory. Though the setting was more sophisticated than Minnie Jessop’s back garden, the women regarded us with the same bright-eyed interest as the cronies.
Champagne bottles protruded from a Regency wine cooler beside the round table, and an oblong table to our left held an array of chafing dishes, domed platters, cut-glass pitchers, and silver carafes, but none of the women had filled a glass or a plate. I assumed that Penny’s friends were better fed than Minnie’s. They were certainly better dressed, though none was as well dressed as Penny.
“I think Bess might like to stretch her legs in the garden,” Nanny Sutton suggested, as Bess strained against the pram’s harness. “You’ll be able to see us through the glass, and if she misses her mum, I’ll bring her straight back to you.”
“Her diapers are in the blue bag,” I told her, “and her toys are in the yellow one. She’s had her midmorning snack, but she’ll need to eat again around eleven. You’ll find her lunch in the insulated bag.”
“May I take her upstairs to the nursery if your brunch runs long?” Nanny Sutton asked. “Penny designed it for her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren. I can guarantee that she didn’t decorate it with lead paint, rusty nails, and poisonous plants.”
I laughed but said, “Let’s see how it goes in the garden.”
Nanny Sutton gave me a thumbs-up, then wheeled the pram through a pair of French doors that opened out onto a formal knot garden.
“Excellent!” Penny exclaimed. “One of our number is running late, but she urged us to carry on without her. Introductions first, then we’ll dig in. Lori Shepherd and Bree Pym, please allow me to present”—she pointed at each woman in turn—“Lorna Small, Alice Johnson, Debbie Lacey, and Gladys Miller.”
The women bobbed their heads at us amiably, then rose to their feet to help themselves to food and drink. Penny motioned for us to join them, then bustled about, making mimosas and urging everyone to have more of everything. After directing Bree and me to chairs facing the knot garden, she slid a miniscule portion of caviar onto her plate and sat across from us, with Gladys Miller on her left and an empty chair on her right.
“You must be dying to know why you’re here,” she said to us.
“My guess,” Bree said shrewdly, “is that it has something to do with a tea party we attended yesterday.”
“Aren’t you clever!” Penny said, smiling sweetly at Bree. “You’re absolutely correct as well. When my friends and I heard that Mrs. Jessop had imposed herself upon you, we simply had to do something to counteract her libelous claims.”
Bree and I didn’t bother to ask how news of a tea party in the terraces had reached Craven Manor. It was clear that Old Cowerton’s grapevine was even more far-reaching than Finch’s.
“We were worried that you’d believe Minnie,” said Lorna Small.
“We couldn’t stand idly by while she ruined a good woman’s reputation,” said Alice Johnson.
“We’d blame ourselves if you left Old Cowerton thinking ill of Annabelle,” said Debbie Lacey.
“Hence, our little gathering,” said Penny. She turned to Gladys Miller. “Would it be unfair of me to ask you to go first, darling? You’ve barely nibbled your kippers.”
“My kippers will keep.” Gladys wet her lips with a sip of mimosa, then gazed levelly across the table at Bree and me. “I’m Bob Nash’s sister,” she said, “and I can tell you exactly how Ted Fletcher died.”
Eighteen
“You’re the jilted fiancée!” Bree blurted, goggling at Gladys. “Ted Fletcher dumped you when he fell for Annabelle Trotter!”
“Bree,” I muttered, mortified by her bluntness.
I blushed on her behalf as the other women clucked their tongues, rolled their eyes, and tossed their heads indignantly. Penny’s next comment seemed to indicate, however, that they were upset with someone other than my tactless companion.
“Item one on the long list of lies you’ve been told,” she said. “We’ve heard them all before, and I’m pleased to say that Gladys can set the record straight on several of them.�
� She held up an index finger. “First, the jilting.”
“Ted Fletcher couldn’t have jilted me,” Gladys said, smiling wryly, “because we were never engaged. My brother Bob wanted me to marry his best friend—he had his heart set on it—but Ted and I were never anything but good pals. We went to the same school and we both worked at the Old Cowerton Dairy, but there was nothing remotely romantic about our relationship. I was much closer to Annabelle than I was to Ted.”
“So Annabelle wasn’t your rival,” Bree said, sounding intrigued. “She was your friend.”
“She was my very dear friend,” said Gladys, “and she was no more in love with Ted than I was. She tried her best to keep him at arm’s length, but she couldn’t keep him from falling in love with her.”
“She was a very pretty girl,” Penny said, “and she’d been treated abominably by her detestable husband. She brought out the white knight in Ted.”
“He was always showing up on her doorstep,” said Gladys. “He wouldn’t let her replace a lightbulb without his help. He went into transports about her whenever our paths crossed at the dairy. I told him it was no good, but the heart wants what the heart wants.”
“Did you work at the dairy at the same time as Mildred Greenham?” Bree asked.
“Yes,” said Gladys. “Mildred worked in the front office, I worked in the cheese-making kitchens, and Annabelle and I had our picnic lunches on a hillock above the south pasture.”
“Your picnic lunches?” I said sharply.
“I thought that would get your attention,” Penny said with a knowing nod. “As I said, we’ve heard it all before. Set the record straight about the picnic hamper, will you, Gladys?”
“With pleasure,” said Gladys. She took another sip from her glass before continuing, “When Annabelle had a moment to spare from her own work, she’d pack a hamper and bring it along to the dairy around lunchtime.” She smiled reminiscently. “It wasn’t a gourmet feast, like Penny’s brunch. We had fish paste sandwiches and a few apples more often than not, but we pretended the hamper was from Fortnum’s and enjoyed every bite.”
Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse Page 14
