“Well first, I’d like to say it’s always nice to run into a fellow American,” Martha said with a warm smile.
“How nice. What part of the States are you from?” Helen asked returning the smile with an outstretched hand which Martha took giving it a firm shake.
It was like finding an old friend in the last place you expected.
“Everyone calls me Martha, by the way. I’m from Arkansas, the northwest corner, a small town called Grace. What about you?”
“No! Me too. Ever heard of Evening Shade?” Helen asked her smile now brighter than before.
“On the other side of Conway? I do know it. Small world.” Martha said giving her head a little shake. “So, do you work here at The Grange?”
“Not exactly,” Helen said. “I’m a private contractor. I assess and provide conservation work on books or in this case, entire libraries. The Grange has one of the best libraries in England representing nineteenth-century authors. I was thrilled to be offered the chance to sniff around the place and work on this collection. One never knows what might turn up in these old collections.”
Helen showed Martha two of the books she was currently cleaning. One was a first-edition poetry book by Percy Bysshe Shelley titled “Queen Mab.” The other was a diary of a navy admiral stationed in Singapore during the early nineteenth century.
“I’ve probably been boring you. I’ll talk your leg off, if you’re not careful.” Helen laid the diary down on a piece of pristine cotton fabric. “Should we go find the receptionist, Mary, and see what Mr. Devry's calendar looks like?”
“I’m supposed to take Mr. Devry’s statement in a case I’m working on,” Martha explained as they walked back down the hall. “I guess I missed him because of a ‘to-do’ that happened on the way here. It slowed me down.”
Helen’s eyebrows furrowed as she recalled her last conversation with Mr. Devry. He hadn’t mentioned any legal issues but then why would he? Devry had, if anything, been extremely reserved and aloof, not exactly the talkative type the entire week she had worked at The Grange.
“Was Mary at her desk when you came in?” Helen asked.
“No one was about.”
“Let’s check. She may have returned.”
As they walked down the corridor toward the reception area, they chatted and laughed about being expats in England.
At the end of the corridor, the somber coolness of The Grange’s entrance hall was offset by the warm sunlight and summer breeze floating in through the one open door to the main entrance. Sounds of bees working diligently at their pollen duties on the hollyhocks near the entrance mixed with the everyday noises wafting up from the village below. Their eyes had to adjust as they came into the hall because the light from outside made the dark walls and stone floor recede into shadows.
Together their gazes fell upon water droplets splattered on the floor and leading behind the semicircular reception desk. Some instinct made Helen stoop down and touch them. As she brought her hand up toward her dazzled eyes, both women gasped when they saw the red stain on her fingers.
“Oh, my God.” Helen said, her voice raw and staccato.
Their gazes locked in mutual horror and it was Martha who first moved behind the reception desk. There, lying on the ground, was a well-dressed man face down in a pool of blood.
Martha looked up at Helen and said throatily, “Call the police.”
Helen dialed the emergency number with her phone. A man answered, but before he could say anything, Helen blurted, “There’s a man dead. There’s so much blood. Here, at The Grange and…and…he’s been murdered.”
Chapter 5
DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR MERRIAM JOHNS had been on the force for almost twenty-five years. He never enjoyed dealing with distressed women and he especially disliked distressed foreign women who had gone and involved themselves in local crimes. As he saw it, they should keep their noses clean when visiting foreign places and his village in particular.
The more he imagined what the woman on the other end of the phone must be like, the more his colicky self escalated into a temper. She was definitely an American and that always meant an extra hassle. Americans were usually one of two things: half were curious about every minute aspect of the British police investigation experience as if it were a TV drama and all cops in England were Sherlock Holmes; the other half loved to comment on how American cops did things differently. He wished he had a pound for every time some American had said, “Well, we don’t do it that way in America.”
But these thoughts increased his irritation level which made his temper rise. He remembered his doctor’s advice about getting too worked up.
“Not good for the old ticker,” Doc Whithersby had said while pointing towards his own heart or where there should have been one.
He wondered if Whithersby was serious about his ticker or if he was insidious enough to make Johns question his own health. He and Whithersby had been in a tight competition for Lilly Peterson, the bartender at The Traveller’s Inn.
Thoughts of Lilly soothed his cantankerous soul as Johns turned his vehicle up the High Street. He pulled up in front of The Grange, turned off the siren and got out of the car. The ambulance was right behind him.
Due to an injury caused by chasing one of the village teens through Mr. and Mrs. Down’s garden (local nudists) last summer, Johns walked with stiffness in his right leg. This along with his extremely stout, bulldog, five-foot-ten body gave the impression of a slow, determined, military tank forcefully moving through the garden.
Today as he thought about Lilly, he ran his bear paw of a hand through his buzz-cut hair. Not more than an inch long on any point of his scalp, each black hair stood perfectly at attention. Johns walked around the building’s corner and entered the portico of the main entrance to The Grange.
MARTHA AND HELEN SAT QUIETLY on the bench after calling the police. They focused intently on the modern digital clock hanging over the reception area because they didn’t want to think about the body behind the desk. It was strange to be sitting in the same room with a dead man.
Soon distant sirens could be heard. They both shifted uneasily in their places, unsure of what to expect when the police arrived.
Martha, light-headed, laid her head against the oak-paneled wall. She looked over at Helen who was also resting her head against the cool paneling, her jaw slightly slack. Martha had an uncontrollable urge to laugh. She fought to control it but a snort and chuckle slipped out. It brought Helen out of her stupor with a start and she turned to look at Martha with wide, incredulous eyes.
“Did you just laugh?” she asked in a shocked tone.
Martha slapped her hand over her offending mouth and mumbled through it. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I looked at your face and I don’t know. It hit me as funny. I’m sorry. It’s not funny. I know that. Okay, I don’t know why I’m laughing. This is horrible.”
“You’re hysterical,” Helen blurted out and again rested her head against the paneling.
They sucked in deep breaths and exhaled in unison. Immediately upon doing so, they burst out laughing. The laughter, albeit bad timing, decompressed their tension for a short time until blaring sirens, tires crunching on the gravel outside, and voices calling to each other announced the arrival of the emergency team and the police.
Martha’s nose twitched. An overbearing smell of aftershave wafted into the room.
“Whoa. Someone practically bathed in the stuff,’ she thought. As if on cue, the breeze delivered the concentrated form of DCI Johns through the door.
“Where is it?” Johns asked in a commanding tone.
Both Helen and Martha got up from their seats and began to walk towards him.
“Behind the desk,” Helen said and pointed.
The room became busy with the police and emergency task force.
Johns knelt down to check the man’s pulse. “Either of you check to see if he was dead during the last ten minutes?”
Martha and Helen exchan
ged nervous looks, both immediately realizing they had never checked for a pulse.
“Get a stretcher in here,” Johns said to the sergeant standing near the door. “This ‘murdered man’ isn’t quite dead yet.”
Chapter 6
London, England
1898
PETER DUTTON, SOLICITOR FOR LAUGHTON, Audley & Dutton, opened the letter from Thomas Gunn, an estate agent located in West Yorkshire. He read as follows:
23 January 1898
Moor Lane House, England
Laughton, Audley & Dutton
Solicitors, Middle Temple Lane, London.
Honored Sirs:
I take this opportunity to inform you of our completion in cataloguing the estate of Miss Ellen Nussey. We have employed the respectable estate agents of Howard & Sons to prepare the premises for auction. Weather permitting, the first of March should give sufficient time to advertise the event properly.
Along with many nice household items, Miss Nussey had a substantial collection of correspondence and written materials from her friendship with Charlotte Bronte and the Bronte family. It may be wise to handle these items separately by employing a London agent to find a proper buyer.
Enclosed you will find a detailed account of each item as you requested and I take the liberty of sending you the Bronte curios by way of my assistant, Mr. Wallins. We await your approval of our endeavors and any further requests.
Respectfully,
Mr. Thomas Gunn, Solicitor,
Brathwait & Co Solicitors
As Dutton lay the letter on his desk, he considered the package Gunn’s assistant had delivered that morning. Gunn had managed to clear up the estate quite well and had recognized the importance of the Bronte items correctly.
Dutton called in his clerk. “Perkins, take these items to Hodgson & Company, the book auctioneers. Tell them to find an appropriate buyer.”
The clerk took the packages and did as he was told. Both items were sold later that year to Amy Lowell, a poet and socialite living in Brookline, Massachusetts.
Chapter 7
Marsden-Lacey, England
Present Day
“ALIVE? HE’S ALIVE? OH MY God. We left him there for dead,” Helen said, taking a turn at sounding a bit hysterical.
Johns eyed the two women critically. Littleword was pretty, although kind of plump for his taste, and the brunette seemed uptight. They were both around forty, and didn’t look like fledgling murderers but until he had more information, he wouldn’t rule them out.
With a glint in his eyes, Johns pointed to Helen. “Tell me what happened and don’t scrimp on the highlights. I love a good story.”
“Well,” she said, as if hesitant to begin, “Mrs. Littleword came into the library where I’d been working and introduced herself. She couldn’t locate Mary, the receptionist, so I offered to help. We came down into the hall and found the man lying on the floor with his head bashed in.”
“What about you, Mrs. Littleword?” Johns asked. “You’ve been in it today. A mugging in the market and now an attempted murder at The Grange. Maybe I ought to take you in and lock you up to bring the crime rate down,” Johns said.
Helen gave Martha an uncertain look.
Martha stiffened but ignored the verbal jab.
“Like she said, we came out looking for the receptionist and saw some type of liquid on the floor. Helen bent down and we realized it was blood. It was then I saw the man lying behind the desk. He wasn’t there before.”
“Before? Explain,” Johns said.
“I came to The Grange intending to meet with Mr. Devry, the curator. I’m taking his statement in a case. I rang the bell on the desk and no one came, so I looked around to see if anyone was there. No one was here and certainly not someone with their head bashed and bloody.”
“You two know each other?” Johns asked.
“No, this is the first time we’ve met,” Martha said with a smile.
“Yes, that’s right. We seem to have been thrown into a mess,” Helen said with a short laugh.
It was John’s turn to look quizzically at Helen. “You find this humorous, Mrs.?”
“Ryes. Helen Ryes. No, I…I…I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed,” Helen stammered apologetically.
“You don’t need to be so gruff with us. Helen is in shock!” Martha said hotly.
Johns was surprised by the redhead’s sudden temper. She stood there defiantly looking at him, her blue eyes boring into his. He changed his tone to a softer one.
“I need both your statements. Where are you staying?” he asked.
Helen quickly looked at Martha and said, “I’m at the old pub on King’s Street. I can’t remember its name. Not much to pick from this time of year.”
“True,” Johns agreed as he scribbled something in his small notebook. “That place has seen better days. What about you, Mrs. Littleword?”
“I own Flower Pot Cottage on Canal Street. First house I’ve ever owned.” Martha said with a hint of pride in her voice.
“Seems fitting,” he grumbled while writing something in his notebook.
“What does that mean?” Martha asked again as if she was insulted by his comment.
Again, Johns was struck by the woman’s feisty attitude. He chose not to take the bait but he couldn’t help but wonder what the world was coming to. One woman was barely able to contain her laughter and the other was thinking about paint swatches for her new house while a man was bleeding to death not more than ten feet from them.
“Don’t go anywhere. Police Constable Cross will take your statements. By the way,” said Johns pointing at the man who was now on the gurney, “either of you ever seen the gent before?”
“No,” both women answered in unison.
“I have,” a small voice said.
Everyone turned to look at a pretty, young girl with black curly hair standing in the door staring at the man on the gurney.
“Mary!” Helen announced.
Johns turned toward the new arrival. “You there. Come here, please.”
The girl came over to them, her big, round eyes darting looks at the man lying on the gurney.
“Young lady, what’s your full name? I assume you are the receptionist?” Johns asked.
“I am,” she said with a slight quiver to her voice. “My name is Mary Wilton. What happened here? Is Sir Carstons dead?”
“No, surprisingly he is still alive,” Johns said with a sour look at Helen and Martha.
The brunette flinched but the Littleword woman returned his sour look.
The paramedics pushed the gurney out the entrance way.
“Everyone around here knows Sir Carstons and that he used to own The Grange,” Johns said. “But he doesn’t live here anymore, so do you have any idea what he was doing here today?”
“Right. It’s odd he’s here.” Mary hesitated, and then went on. “He’s not supposed to be here. The Grange is in the hands of a board of trustees now. I was told to let Mr. Devry know if he ever visited. I’ve worked here for about three months, and I’ve only seen Sir Carstons once.”
Johns jotted something down in his notebook then asked, “Where have you been Miss Wilton? Do you usually take such long lunch breaks?”
“No, not usually. Today I took my break about 2 p.m. but I had to stop at the post office so it took longer to get back,” Mary explained.
“Looks like I need a statement from you, too, Miss Wilton. Police Constable Cross will take it.”
Johns turned to go. He hoped Sir Carstons pulled through. Otherwise he would be in it thick. With so many tourists at this time of year, there wasn’t any telling why Sir Carstons had been hammered.
“Ladies, we’ll get your statements then you may go. I’ll ask that you not touch anything. Thank you.” Johns touched his forehead in a good-bye salutation and stiffly marched out of The Grange’s old front doors leaving Helen, Martha and Mary quietly staring after him.
“GOOD RIDDANCE,” MARTHA SAID AS Johns left throug
h the front doors.
Helen turned to face Martha. “Don’t like him much?”
“He didn’t need to be so rude and he made me feel like we were guilty of popping Sir Carstons in the head.”
“Sir Carstons?” Helen said half to herself but looking at the other two.
“Yeah, I wonder what he was doing here,” Mary said. “He isn’t supposed to be on the property. He and the board are in it over something.”
“Have you seen Mr. Devry today, Mary?” Martha asked. “I was supposed to meet him to take his statement.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember talking with you on the phone. He was here but got a call from his mother. Something about her not feeling well.” She looked around nervously. “I don’t want to stay here by myself. Helen, are you staying?”
Helen saw the apprehension on the young girl’s face but didn’t want to stay any longer herself in case a homicidal maniac was on the loose. “Mary, I don’t have any authority here but under the circumstances, it might not be a bad idea to call your board’s president and tell him what happened. He’ll want to know. I’ll be in the library for at least another thirty minutes.”
Mary, forgetting Chief John’s request not to touch anything, started towards the phone on the reception desk but saw the coagulated droplets of blood. Her head jerked around with an expression of terror and she faltered in mid-stride.
Helen and Martha both moved at the same time to catch her before she fell. They lifted her over to the bench and lay her down along its length. Martha propped Mary’s head on her lap while Helen laid the girl’s knees across her own.
Here they were again, on the bench.
“I need a drink,” Helen sighed.
“Yes, and I wish I still smoked,” Martha agreed.
Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 2
