“And you’re sure the boy couldn’t have slipped in when you weren’t looking?”
She put her fists on her broad hips. “There’s my stove. And there’s the back door. I think I have eyes, begging your pardon.”
“Of course,” he soothed. “I didn’t mean otherwise. But it’s a thorny problem, how he got down there, wouldn’t you say?”
“It is that.” She frowned contemplatively. “Him and that cat, both where they don’t belong and warned off more than once, I daresay. And poor Mrs. Cummins having another shock she never deserved.”
None of them deserved any of this, but he had tried to keep Will out of danger. Tried and failed. Tried and failed. What good was he doing asking questions now that it was already too late?
“You’ve been here some time, haven’t you?” he asked. “At Winteroak House.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Since Mr. Tal was a little fellow. He’d been rather sickly, you know, but he was just coming out of it and just as lively a baby as I’ve ever seen. The poor dear, losing Miss Alice and all, and the master being taken away. I could hardly believe it of him. He’s always been such a fine man and the best of masters. And there’s poor Mrs. Cummins. She shouldn’t have this to bear. She just shouldn’t.”
“I take it you’re rather fond of them all.”
“Not everyone in service lands in so good a place. No matter what he’s done, Mr. Cummins has always been good to me, and I hope no one can ever call Myrtle Ruggles ungrateful. I’m not likely to abandon Mrs. Cummins or the young master at this late date. Those gentlemen from Scotland Yard, if you can properly call them gentlemen, have no business stirring things up here. If Mr. Cummins has done wrong, well then I suppose he’s got to answer for it, but they’ve no right upsetting Madam or Mr. Tal. And don’t think I haven’t told them right out.”
“They have their jobs to do, I suppose. But we’ll try to figure out this little puzzle and send them on their way, eh?” He glanced toward the pantry door. “It would be very helpful if I could take another look round down there.”
“Go on down, sir. I’ve got supper to get to now.”
Drew thanked her and made his way back into the wine cellar. He began looking around again, starting with the three barrels of wine that had fallen onto the stone floor.
Twelve
Drew switched on a reading lamp in the library, and Madeline blinked at him.
“I hadn’t realized how dark it had gotten.”
“Neither had I,” he said. He switched on a lamp at the end of the sofa, where Nick and Carrie were sitting. Carrie looked more delicate than usual as she sat curled up next to him. Her shoes were on the floor, her legs tucked up under her. They had evidently been sitting that way for a long time, still and silent.
“Do you want me to send a telegram to your father?” Drew asked her.
Carrie shook her head. “I’ll do it. I can’t have it coming from anyone else.”
She took the pencil and stationery he offered her and began writing. She had only partially written her father’s name when the pencil lead snapped. Nick scrounged in the drawer in the end table where they kept the cards and found another one. Carrie broke it a moment later.
“Let me,” he said gently, taking the paper from her and finding a third pencil farther back in the drawer. “You tell me what you want to say, and I’ll write it down for you.”
She nodded, looking pitifully grateful to him. “Just tell him to please come, Billy was . . . was . . . Oh, I don’t know what to tell him. How can I tell him Billy’s dead? That he was most likely murdered?”
Tears pooled in her eyes, spilling over when she blinked them away.
“Perhaps we should just say it was an accident,” Madeline suggested. “We don’t know anything more at this point. Not really.”
Drew looked up at her, feeling that knife twist of guilt again in his gut. It was true—they didn’t know for certain. Not yet. But it seemed rather unlikely Billy’s death and Alice’s were unrelated. Still, he held his tongue. Perhaps it was for the best.
“It might be easier, sweetheart,” Nick said. “By the time he gets here, we’ll be much more certain about everything. The important part is just getting him to come.”
She nodded. “All right. Write what you think is best.”
“Give it to me,” Madeline said, holding out her hand.
Nick passed her the pencil and paper, and she wrote a short message: Please come. Billy in fatal accident. Need you. Wire sailing information.
Drew read it over her shoulder. Short and to the point, a dagger to the heart of a loving father. It would be four or five days at the earliest before Mr. Holland knew more than that his only son was dead. “Following your example, eh, Detective Farthering?” Drew pushed the thought away.
“I think that’s best for now, darling. What do you think, Carrie? Shall I have it sent?”
“I don’t know what else to do.” She looked up at Nick. “Are you still going to find out what’s going on here? It’s not just Alice anymore.”
“I was thinking you and Madeline ought to go back to Farthering Place until your father arrives.”
Carrie’s red-rimmed eyes narrowed. “While you and Drew stay here?”
Nick glanced at Drew. “Not all the time, I’m sure. What do you think, Drew?”
“I told Tal I’d do what I can to help. I may be rather useless on that front, but I have to try. But I won’t keep you, old man. I know you want to be with Carrie just now.”
Nick smiled faintly. “I do.” He leaned over and kissed her temple. “Of course I do. But if we can help Tal while he’s in this mess, I hate to turn tail now.”
“If you’re staying,” Madeline told Drew, “I’m staying.”
“Darling—”
“I mean it. I’m not going home. Not after what’s happened to Billy. Nick can drive Carrie back to Farthering Place. Mrs. Devon will look after her until her father comes. Nick can go back and forth between here and there as needed. Then she won’t—”
“I’m staying too.”
“Carrie,” Madeline breathed.
“I’m staying.” Carrie’s voice quavered just the slightest bit, but then she frowned and lifted her chin. “I don’t know how long it will take Daddy to arrange passage. It could be a week or more. Either way, I’m not sitting over at Farthering Place by myself.”
Madeline came over and sat beside her, taking her hand. “You don’t have to do that. I know you’re scared.”
“Of course I’m scared!” In her agitation, Carrie’s South Carolina accent was more pronounced than ever. “But there has to be something I can do besides leave you all to look for clues while I wait for my father to come take me home.”
Nick put his arm around her, pulling her closer to his side. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I shouldn’t like anything to happen to you.”
“I want to stay. I want to help find whoever did this.”
“Carrie—”
“Please.” She turned sorrowful blue eyes up to Drew. “Don’t send me back now. I can’t bear sitting back there at your house, wondering what’s happening, just thinking about Billy. I can’t bear being alone.”
Madeline gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Please, Drew. Can’t she stay? I mean, if it’s all right with Tal and Mrs. Cummins.”
Nick frowned. “No.”
“Might not be such a bad idea,” said Drew. “At least here we can both keep an eye on her. Besides that, it seems rather unlikely that the killer is going to pop by every day.”
Nick studied Carrie’s pensive face and then gave a reluctant nod. “All right. But only until your father gets here. And promise me you won’t go off by yourself. Ever.”
She nodded, her expression solemn.
Drew glanced at Madeline, and she gave him a nod. He put his hand over Carrie’s. “Have you thought about what you want to do? About your brother, I mean.”
“I don’t know. I guess something has to be decided.
”
“Whether he’s buried here once your father arrives or taken back to the States, the coroner will have to prepare the body. I assume that can’t wait very much longer.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Carrie shook her head, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “I don’t want all that. I don’t want him sewed up like Frankenstein’s monster and filled with horrible chemicals. Daddy will want to take him home, but I just don’t want Billy having all that done to him first. And Daddy’ll want to see him, and I don’t want him to, especially by the time he gets here. Who knows how long that will be or what Billy would . . . would be like by then.” She pressed a hand over her mouth. “It would stay with him the rest of his life, seeing Billy like that. But I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what your laws say about that kind of thing. I don’t know where—”
“We have a small family plot at Farthering Place,” Drew said. “It’s just a little clearing surrounded by a grove of oaks, but it’s a quiet, peaceful place. If we can have the service soon, there would be no need for any preservation.”
“Uncle Mason is buried there,” Madeline said softly.
Carrie’s eyes filled with tears. “You wouldn’t mind? With Billy not being family?”
“Of course not.” Drew squeezed her hand and then released it. “What do you think?”
She nodded rapidly. “That would be very kind of you. Do you think we could see to it before Daddy gets here? He’s not going to be happy that I didn’t ask him about it first, but I just can’t stand him seeing Billy as he is.”
“We’ll see to it,” Drew assured her. “Don’t you worry.”
She began crying in earnest then. Nick took her into his arms, gently pushing her head down to his shoulder, stroking her hair as her tears soaked into his dark jacket.
Drew stood, took Madeline’s hand, and escorted her out of the room, shutting the library door behind them.
After lunch the next day, Drew walked over to the vicar’s house to speak to him about arranging the service for Will Holland. Mrs. Broadhurst came to the door and told him her son was out visiting his parishioners, but she said Drew was welcome to stop in and have a cup of tea with her. Drew declined the invitation with thanks. He wasn’t in the mood for tea and cakes and inconsequential chat. He needed a stretch of quiet so he could mull over what he’d seen down in the wine cellar. There was something about those barrels that nagged at him. Clearly, Will’s death hadn’t been an accident, yet no one who might be considered a suspect had been unaccounted for at the time.
He turned from the lane where the Broadhursts lived and walked down along the shore for a while and then up along the Lymington River until he reached the bridge that crossed over into Lymington itself, two miles or so from Winteroak House. It wasn’t far into the center of town, the church and the post office, and several respectable little shops. Mrs. Ruggles had told Madeline this would be a good place to find a collar for Eddie. Now was as good a time as any to get one.
He found exactly what he wanted in a shop down from the newsagent’s, a black velvet collar with a little bell. From now on, when Eddie got into mischief, someone would know about it.
Once he’d made his purchase, he realized it was teatime. It wouldn’t take long to walk back over to Winteroak, but by then it seemed fairly likely that everyone there would have already had their tea. He didn’t want much more than just tea, so he went back to the newsagent’s. Earlier, the girl there had directed him to the shop where he had bought the collar, and now she was kind enough to point out a tea room across the way.
O’Gorman’s was small but evidently quite popular, crowded and noisy with the chatter of ladies, most of them middle-aged. Drew made up precisely one-sixth of the shop’s male patrons. The place was cheery that summer afternoon and smelled absolutely divine. He was waiting for the hostess to seat him when he spotted Philip Broadhurst sitting at a table in the corner, his back to the wall. If the brooding darkness in his expression was any indicator, whatever he was thinking had put him out of his usual good humor. Even so, Drew decided it was as good a time as any to ask him about Will’s burial service.
“Good afternoon.”
The vicar started at the greeting and stood up. “Drew. How are you?”
The two men shook hands.
“What brings you here?”
“I came to get a collar for a cat.” Drew patted his pocket, making it jingle, and then he shrugged. “Actually I had wandered over to your house to see you, but your mother said you were paying calls on your parishioners. I didn’t expect to run into you here in Lymington.”
“I, uh, didn’t expect to see you, either.” Broadhurst glanced briefly toward the door. “Always a pleasure, of course. Will you sit down?”
The table was already laid for two, so Drew waved him off. “You’re expecting someone. I’ll just get my own place. I would like to have a word with you when you’ve got a moment. About Will Holland.”
“No, no. Sit. Please. I just stopped in for tea myself. So long as we’re both here, we may as well talk. How are you? How are things at Winteroak today? How is Miss Holland? Please, sit down.”
Drew did as he was bidden. “It’s not easy for her, as you might expect. There’s still the shock of the accident and dealing with the police and having to wire her father back in the States. In short, everything’s rather the same as when you were by yesterday. Mrs. Cummins has done all she’s able to, but there’s really not much any of us can do.”
“No,” Broadhurst said. “The whole business is tragic. And I had spoken to the boy just that morning.”
“I was wondering about that. Did he happen to say where he was going or what he was about?”
The vicar shook his head. “I regret to say he didn’t. I wish now I had gotten him to come back to the house with me, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Said he had business to see to. Such a tragedy.”
They both fell silent as the girl brought them tea.
“Generally we’d have our own vicar, Mr. Bartlett, see to this sort of thing,” Drew said when she’d gone, “but Miss Holland has specifically asked if you would handle the service. Since she knows you and since you knew her brother.”
Broadhurst fidgeted in his chair. “I’m honored that she should ask for me in particular, but at someone else’s church, I—”
“No, this wouldn’t be at our church. Just at my estate. We have a few family graves on the property, and we all thought that would be a proper place for Will to be buried.”
“I see,” the vicar said, glancing again toward the door and not sounding as if the conversation was holding his full attention. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “That being the case, certainly. If it would be a comfort to Miss Holland, I would be happy to oblige. When did you think of having it?”
“Tomorrow morning, if you’re not already engaged,” Drew said, taking a subtle glance of his own into the large mirror that hung above the table. “Her father is due in at Southampton on Sunday, and she wants it seen to before then. The condition of the body . . .”
“Perfectly understandable. But I’m afraid tomorrow morning is out of the question. I have, uh, other obligations then. Would the afternoon do? Say one o’clock?”
“That ought to be fine. I’ll check with Miss Holland, but I don’t think that will be a problem.” Drew stood and shook the vicar’s hand again. “Thank you. This means a great deal to her, and we don’t have much to offer by way of comfort at the moment, besides the hope of eternity.”
Broadhurst also stood. “It’s the only true comfort we have.”
“Oh.” Drew fished a few coins out of his pocket, enough to cover the bill and a generous amount left over for the girl. “Thanks for letting me interrupt your tea.”
“No, please,” the vicar protested. “I asked you.”
“Only after I imposed on your time and your table. Please, it’s the least I can do. I’d be happy to walk back to the village with you if you’d like the
company.”
“No, I, uh . . .” Again Broadhurst’s eyes flicked toward the door. “I’ll just finish my tea. Sometimes it’s rather nice to be where one isn’t so well known.”
Drew nodded in understanding. “And even here you still have people making demands upon your time. But not to worry. Next time we happen to meet, you’ll have to open the conversation. Otherwise, I’ll just assume you’d rather be let alone.”
Broadhurst chuckled and sat down once again. “No need for that. I’m always happy to chat, and having demands upon my time is a well-known part of my job.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. So tomorrow at one?”
“One o’clock. And please tell Miss Holland if there’s anything at all I can do to be of service to her before then, just let me know.” There was gentle sincerity in the vicar’s dark eyes. “Tell her too that I will keep her and her father in my prayers.”
Drew briefly bowed his head. “I’ll do just that. Good afternoon.”
He left the tea room and crossed the street back to the newsagent’s where he could see the door to the tea room but not be seen from inside. He bought the latest edition of the Times and concealed himself behind it as he waited. A few minutes later, the vicar left the shop and walked the other way down the street and crossed the bridge, ostensibly back to Armitage Landing. Once he was well out of sight, Drew folded his newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and made his way back to Winteroak House.
Drew returned in time to dress for dinner, a subdued affair where everyone struggled to converse about anything but what was on everyone’s mind. Drew wanted to report on his conversation with the Reverend Mr. Broadhurst, but with Laurent being ever so polite and solicitous to the ladies, Drew decided the tale would keep until later.
“I don’t know what it is,” Mrs. Cummins said when they retired to the library after the meal, “but I’ve felt so cold lately. Nerves, I suppose.”
“Are you all right, Mother?” Tal asked. “May I get a shawl or something for you?”
Dressed for Death Page 16
