“I did not.”
“Please, John, you wear your thoughts on your brow.”
“Why is he going to America?” I asked. “I thought he was rather happy here.”
“My father offered him a great position at the oil company,” John answered. “He thought he might give it a try.”
“Roger? But I thought he didn’t care to work. He did say that to me once.”
“We all did,” Edgar answered.
“He seems to have changed his mind.”
“And no goodbye party?”
John shrugged.
“I’m afraid ever since Vivian arrived, Roger’s been preoccupied,” Edgar said. “Roger isn’t sentimental anyway.”
“It’s amazing he feels anything at all,” John answered.
“Will he ever return to London?”
“That, I do not know,” Edgar answered.
“We’re not sure,” John repeated. “Roger is the most intelligent of all of us Loxleys and if my father wants to put that knowledge to use, he will.”
“I’m not sure Roger knows a lick about oil...” Edgar said.
“He’ll learn quickly,” John defended.
“Roger in America, Richard in Paris, what next?”
John smirked.
“You know, Paul. You could visit Richard and Claire in Paris. They have plenty of wine cellars there. While Richard’s filming, you and Claire could visit some of them and bring us back some of the finest Claret.”
“That’s a strange thing to suggest, John,” Edgar replied.
“Is it?”
“Sorry, John, but I’m not going to Paris.”
“Pity,” John said.
“I do wonder what you two are talking about.”
“And wonder you shall,” John answered. “Now, let me have a go at some chess.”
25 An Arrest
“Auntie, he’s not interested in me,” Beatrice said, as she smoothed out her pea green dress.
“Nonsense. How could he not be interested?”
“Apparently, I was the only one who saw him dote over that American girl at the dinner party. Although he wasn’t the only one,” Beatrice continued. “I think Roger Loxley has his heart set on her also.”
Mrs. Wendell and Beatrice sat in Petunia’s drawing room on that windy March Saturday for tea and gossip. Mrs. Glum placed the toasted marmalade sandwiches and chocolate sponge cake on the table as the ladies continued to talk.
“What is it with those Loxleys and their fascination with everything American?”
“I don’t know,” Beatrice said, “But I’m no longer interested in John Loxley. I’m taken with someone else.”
“I beg your pardon? Who?”
“Well, you know how I am always poking my nose around the headquarters?”
“Must you remind me?” Mrs. Wendell grumbled as she rolled her eyes.
“Well, one day, I decided I would spy on Constable Wyatt, but I never had a chance because he saw me and asked if I might go to dinner with him.”
“But he’s much too old for you, Dear,” Mrs. Wendell argued.
“Perhaps, but he doesn’t have a wife, and he is interested. Perhaps I’ll ask him to the next Loxley party.”
“Oh Beatrice, I do wish you would have thought about this before taking up with someone so much older.”
“I do like him, Auntie. Can’t you just be happy for me?”
“Petunia, please, interject. I cannot be the only one who finds this absolutely horrifying.”
Petunia wished the women would stop talking about the Loxleys and Constable Wyatt. She still kept her secret of what she’d learnt at the masquerade ball, and she couldn’t very well tell Beatrice that the man she was so taken with was the kind of man who kept secrets for money. She also couldn’t tell Mrs. Wendell that her precious John Loxley was that same kind of man. The next bit of gossip was even worse.
“Have you heard about Richard Baker and his wife?”
“What about them?” Petunia asked curiously.
“Well, I have a friend in Paris who wrote me that Richard and Claire were working for that famous director from the Loxley party. They’ve only just begun to film, but already have made a sizeable amount of money with no explanation of where it came from.”
“Wasn’t Richards mother’s family wealthy, Petunia?” Mrs. Wendell questioned.
Richard Baker was another person Petunia did not want to speak about. Not only did she not trust him, but knowing that he was the one who shot Wendy Watson first was particularly disturbing.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“I’m sure they were,” Mrs. Wendell maintained. “And perhaps he finally came into her family’s inheritance.”
“Maybe,” Beatrice said, “But my friend also wrote that Claire’s new fortune has labeled her a Paris boutique’s worst nightmare. She dresses only in the top French fashions.”
“That doesn’t sound like Claire at all,” Petunia commented. “How does your friend even know Claire?”
“Guy Finlaw’s assistant divulges all that information to the locals. I’m just lucky my friend happened to find that crowd.”
Suddenly, Mrs. Glum entered the drawing room.
“Mrs. Pennyworth, there’s a detective on the telephone. He says it’s urgent that he speak with you.”
Petunia did not even hear the telephone ring. That the detectives were calling with an urgency could only mean something terrible had happened.
“Petunia, what’s going on?”
“I’m not sure. If you’ll excuse me...”
Petunia hurried from the drawing room and into the sitting room where she kept her telephone. When she picked up the phone, she drew in a deep breath.
“This is Mrs. Pennyworth.”
The detective spoke on the other line and when he was finished, the phone fell from Petunia’s hand and dangled just inches above the ground.
Phillip Pennyworth was missing and was wanted for the death of Agatha Bates.
26 A Return to Whitemoor
Paul Watson’s Journal
March 5, 1927—I left for Whitemoor on a rainy, cool Friday feeling a mixture of excitement and foreboding about what I might find once I got there. A long train ride and motor ride later, I reached Dalwhinnie.
Memories filled my mind as I stepped into that inn. The last time I was in Dalwhinnie, I met Rosalind without knowing that our meeting was not a coincidence—she had been spying on me. This time I was so exhausted when I arrived that I retired to my room early.
The next morning, my driver Franklin and I continued our drive toward Whitemoor. The day was clear and I was able to appreciate the scenery around me. I wondered how something so horrible, like Kolney Hatch, could be amidst such a beautiful place.
Hours later, Franklin stopped the car and said, “Doctor Watson, we’ve arrived.”
My legs were stiff, and with some difficulty, I stepped out of the car and into the cool air. A slight rain pattered on the windows of the car, and a thick grey mist began to creep over the hills. There in front of me, nestled in a clear patch of land, mountains looming in the distance, was my Aunt Greta’s cottage.
“Yes...oh yes,” I whispered as memories of my childhood flooded back to me. “The garden was there.” I said excitedly to Franklin who simply leaned against the motor car with his arms folded. “You can leave me,” I said.
“How will you get to the inn?”
“Come back for me in a couple of hours.”
Franklin agreed to do so, and soon he was back in his motor car and headed off on the long trek toward town.
Meanwhile, I admired the site before me. The cottage looked the same as it had from my childhood. I noticed that the home next to it had been destroyed. From the pile of rubble and rotting wood, I could tell the home was abandoned long ago.
The detectives had informed me there was an illegal tenant living in the cottage, and I wondered why my cousin Bran had not taken better care of his home. I als
o wondered who the illegal tenant was and how they came to occupy the home. I walked around the house, passed an untamed garden, and stopped at the back door.
The detectives, once they knew I was arriving to Whitemoor earlier than they had expected, had contacted the Whitemoor Police to make sure I could get into the cottage. According to the police, one of the keys that opened the cottage was missing, likely still in the hands of the illegal tenant, but they would leave the second key under a flower pot by the back door.
I lifted up the pot, and sure enough, there was the small copper key. Once I heard the click of the door, I opened it and walked inside to find cobwebs and dust filled the house. It smelled like a mixture of smoke and damp air, and the floorboards creaked underneath my feet.
Other than that, however, everything in the house appeared exactly the same as it had when I visited my aunt all those years ago. The same country style upholstered sofa and oak wood furniture were in the exact spots I last remembered them.
I searched the first floor of the house for any family items, but when I didn’t find any, I realized the time was getting late and Franklin would be back in just under an hour. I needed to find the mysterious item my Aunt Greta wrote about, and so I hurried toward the stairs, preparing myself for what I might uncover.
27 Mystery Under the Floorboard
Paul Watson’s Journal
March 5, 1927, continued—I hurried up the stairs into Aunt Greta’s old room. Inside, it was a complete mess. The white and blue flowered blanket and linens were ripped off the bed and piled in a heap on the floor. The wooden dresser’s drawers had been rummaged through and items from the draws were strewn over the floor. The lamp that sat on the wooden side table was shattered on the ground next to the table.
At first, I thought perhaps the police were searching for something in the house. After all, they had been inside several times since learning of the illegal tenant. But then, a thought occurred to me. Perhaps an intruder with a specific purpose had created the mess. Perhaps the intruder was looking for the same mysterious item as I.
I searched around the bed floor for a loose floorboard. As I stared at the floor, I noticed one of the pieces of wood was several shades lighter than the rest. I knelt on the ground and looked for a crack between the boards. When I found one, I grunted as I struggled to lift the board. Then I reached my hand into the darkness in the floor but felt nothing but an empty space.
For several seconds I searched, thinking the box may have slid further back, but I searched with futile effort. Nothing was in that space.
Defeated, I sat on the floor. Had someone reached the floorboard before me? Nothing about this situation made any sense to me. I’d come all the way back to Whitemoor for what? A hunch? I was sure whatever had been under the floorboard was not in my mum’s things, but if my Aunt only sent this letter to my mum, how would someone have known anything was under the floorboard in the first place?
I decided to check the hole in the floorboard one more time. I lay on the floor and stuck my hand and some of my head in as far as I could. Suddenly, I felt something. I grunted as I tried to pull it toward me. Soon I realized it was a box, and once I had a grip on it, I began to pull it towards me.
I heard one of the stair floorboards creak and assumed Franklin had come back early. But just as I pulled out the carved walnut box with extravagant leaf designs and held it in my hands, I felt a sharp pain on the back of my head. Everything around me went dark.
28 The Missing Phillip Pennyworth
“Mrs. Pennyworth, the same detectives are here to see you again,” Mrs. Glum informed, “And this time they’ve brought the constable.”
“Oh, dear. Of course. Let them in, Mrs. Glum.”
Petunia put down the needlepoint she was working on and stood. The last week had been a whirlwind of events. Reporters had telephoned Petunia incessantly. She’d even seen Rufus Patterson watching her house. Phillip was still missing, and no one had seen or heard from him for an entire week.
“Please, do come in,” Petunia said reluctantly to the detectives and the Constable. “Will you have some tea?”
“Yes, Mrs. Pennyworth, please,” Detective Wicksy said.
“Mrs. Glum, please bring tea and cakes for the gentlemen.”
The detectives each took a seat, while the Constable continued to stand; their faces bore a grim expression.
“When is the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Pennyworth?”
Constable Wyatt narrowed his eyes and folded his arms.
"Well let me see, I..." Petunia thought about it for several seconds and decided to reply truthfully. "I haven't seen or heard from him in a week."
"No telegrams? No letters? No telephone calls?"
"No. Nothing." Petunia answered earnestly.
"You mean to tell me that your husband has not contacted you at all? I find that quite hard to believe..."
"I assure you..."
"I don't believe..."
"Constable Wyatt," Detective Wicksy intervened. "Why don't you let us take it from here?"
Constable Wyatt huffed, but he did not take his eyes off Petunia. She wondered why he was acting so unkind.
“What Constable Wyatt is trying to say is that we’re trying to find Phillip as quickly as possible, so if you do know where he is, or if you have any idea where he may have gone, we would appreciate it if you told us.”
“As I said before,” Petunia said. “I do not know where Phillip is.”
“What is the last thing you remember from your last encounter with Phillip?” Detective Barnes asked as he played with the tips of his mustache. “Did he show any indication of leaving? Did he take any clothes, any household items?”
Petunia shook her head. Mrs. Glum entered then with tea and macaroons. Petunia nervously put a few macaroons on her plate.
“Phillip and I....” she looked directly at Constable Wyatt as she spoke. “We rarely speak. We haven’t been right since...our son’s disappearance.”
“How do you mean?” Wicksy asked, taking a macaroon and a sip of his tea.
“There’s no love in our marriage, Detective. He blames me for our son’s disappearance, and we are strangers to one another. We have been for a very long time, even though in name we are still married. I don’t really know any of Phillip’s business or of his affairs. And I don’t know why he would have taken off...if he did take off.”
“I see,” Wicksy answered.
It was Detective Barnes who spoke next.
“Sometimes when people are wanted for questioning, they do this, Mrs. Pennyworth,” Barnes said. “Are you sure there’s nothing more you can tell us about Phillip and Agatha Bates?”
Petunia shook her head again.
“I’m certain there’s not.”
“Were you aware of the affair he was having with Miss Bates?” Constable Wyatt added.
Petunia felt faint. Suddenly her throat felt so tight she couldn’t breathe. They knew about the affair now. Still, she didn’t feel comfortable admitting that she had known about it.
“Phillip never confided in me about his affairs, but I assumed he was having an affair with someone.”
Wicksy and Barnes exchanged a glance with the Constable.
“Well, that’ll be all then Mrs. Pennyworth. We’ll be in touch with any new information, and we ask that you do the same.”
“Of course,” Petunia said.
Then the detectives stood and shuffled out of the drawing room. Constable Wyatt was last to leave. As he passed through the doorway, he turned and glanced at Petunia. For that split second, his cold and merciless eyes sent shivers down her spine.
Once the detectives and Constable were gone, Petunia took a seat in the drawing room once more and stared blankly into the unlit fireplace. She wiped the few tears that trickled down her face. What was she to do now that Phillip had put her in this position? Petunia wasn’t sure how much more humiliation and upset she could take.
“Madam, would you like me t
o serve you dinner now?”
“That’s fine, Mrs. Glum. I’ll go into the dining area.”
Mrs. Glum turned to leave and then turned back and said, “Oh, I almost forgot. This was just outside the door.”
She handed Petunia a newspaper. As Petunia unfolded it, she saw on the front page of Breaking London was the top story from Rufus Patterson. Petunia cried out in horror when she saw the top news story was a pitiless article about Phillip Pennyworth’s ongoing affair with the late Agatha Bates and his possible involvement in her murder. What was even more unnerving was the piece of paper carefully attached to the top of the newspaper that read:
Be careful of what you say, Petunia. Or you’ll be the one to pay.
29 Another Blow to the Head
Paul Watson’s Journal
March 5, 1927, continued.— I groggily woke to the sound of muffled voices.
“Doctor Watson,” a thick Scottish accented voice said. “Doctor Watson, can you hear me.”
I slowly opened my eyes to see four men standing over me—two men in police uniforms, a doctor, and Franklin. I had been moved from the floor to my Aunt Greta’s bed, and the doctor was checking my pupils.
“Doctor Watson,” the doctor said again as he checked more of my vitals.
“Yes,” I croaked. I tried to sit up, but the doctor put his hand on my shoulder to stop me.
“You must take it easy, Doctor Watson. You’ve had a nasty blow to the head, and by the looks of your scars, this isn’t the first time.”
“I have to find the box,” I said trying to sit up once again.
“You can find the box later,” the doctor said. “Right now you need to rest. I’m sending you to the inn with your driver. You can thank him for alerting the police.”
“Do you know who did this?” I asked.
“Not a clue,” one of the policemen said. “We’re searching for anyone who may look suspicious in the surrounding area, but it’s hard to tell. This cottage is in a remote place, so whoever it is, knows how to navigate without being detected.”
“Do you know of anyone who may want to hurt you, Mr. Watson?” the second policeman said.
Kolney Hatch: Buried Secrets (The Secret of Kolney Hatch Book 2) Page 10
