A Deception at Thornecrest

by Ashley Weaver

  “Thank you,” I said. “That was very enlightening. I wonder … The young woman who was here before me, what sort of fortune did you tell her?”

  The young fortune-teller frowned, dropping her mystic guise and the accent along with it. “I don’t know what she was in such a huff about. I thought she’d like her fortune. It’s not as though I can really … That is…” She paused and reassumed her persona. “It’s not as though the Great Griselda can change what the future holds.”

  “What did you tell her?” I asked.

  “I merely told her that something from the past would arrive to change her future. That secrets would be revealed that would make all become clear.”

  It was standard stuff, the sort of vague prophecies than any imitation occultist would give. Why, then, would it have upset Imogen?

  “Well, thank you very much, Mab … Griselda.”

  “You’re very welcome, my lady,” she said.

  I got up from my seat, and she followed me out of the tent just as Milo approached from the direction of the livestock pens.

  “Would your husband like his fortune told, my lady?” Mabel asked, watching him.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. I knew Milo had no patience for such things.

  She looked a bit disappointed. I couldn’t help but wonder if the pretty young fortune-teller was just eager to have a few minutes alone with my husband. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “There you are, darling. I wondered where you’d disappeared to,” Milo said as he reached me.

  “Having my future read,” I said lightly.

  “Well, I’ll venture to predict your near future includes the sound of a pistol and the pounding of hooves.”

  I saw that the crowd had begun to move as one toward the field on the south side of the festival grounds.

  It was time for the races.

  9

  MILO HAD SECURED us one of the little enclosures close to the track, and we waited with anticipation for the race to start. I was mostly just relieved to have a seat, even if it was merely one of the plain plank benches, as temporary as the makeshift racetrack itself.

  The crowd was in a jovial mood. The air was filled with the sound of conversation, laughter, and the shout of spectators cheering on their favorites. Many of the faces I recognized from the village and the surrounding areas of the county. The Springtide Festival was not an exceptionally large gathering by racing standards. I had accompanied Milo to the Royal Ascot, the Cheltenham Festival, and many of the other great racing events in the country, and our little event was quite humble in comparison. Nevertheless, it was always met with great enthusiasm, and the locals took as much pride in their wins as any owner in England.

  Lady Alma arrived in our enclosure, out of breath. “Thought I was going to miss it,” she said. “I got caught up in conversation. Always an awkward thing trying to get away.”

  She took a seat on the other side of Milo, her gaze moving around the track as though calculating the odds of the horses she favored. Like Milo, Lady Alma refrained from running any of her Thoroughbreds, but she was always keen to place bets on the village racers and to keep an eye out for any potential breeding stock.

  “Who’s your favorite, Lady Alma?” Milo asked.

  “Old Henson’s filly, Jasmine,” she said without hesitation.

  “Is that so?” Milo asked. “The vicar and I both favor Yates’s bay, Galahad.”

  “Galahad,” she scoffed. “Jasmine will take the race by a length, mark my words.”

  “Would you care to wager on it?” he asked, flashing a smile.

  She returned it with a grin of her own. “A hundred pounds.”

  Milo held out his hand and they shook. He had just increased my investment in the outcome considerably.

  Milo could do as he pleased with his money, of course, but it always made me uneasy to see how easily he gambled it. Luckily for both of us, he almost always won. I wondered if he would be so fortunate today. If there was anyone who knew horses as well as he did, it was Lady Alma.

  A few moments later we watched as the horses lined up at the gate. I shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun and studied them. There were a great deal of fine-looking horses, my amateur opinion confirmed by Milo’s next comment: “Good stock all around this year.”

  I searched the line and realized suddenly what was missing. “Where’s Bertie?” I asked.

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Milo answered.

  “It’s odd,” Lady Alma mused. “I know how eager the boy was to show off his horse. Perhaps he’s just late coming to the gate.”

  I stood, looking behind the starting line, hoping to catch sight of him approaching.

  But no—the horses pranced, the gunshot sounded, and off they went. I watched the race, only half-focused on the outcome. It seemed whatever had been worrying Bertie had prevented him from racing. I felt sorry he had missed this opportunity to show both Molly and his skill as a horseman.

  My attention was soon otherwise engaged, however, as the horses began to hit their stride. As Milo and Lady Alma had predicted, it was Jasmine and Galahad who pulled ahead as the horses made their way around the track.

  Lady Alma shot to her feet, her gaze riveted on the track.

  As they neared the final turn, I reached out and clutched Milo’s arm, the fabric of his jacket bunching beneath my glove as I squeezed it in nervous anticipation. The corner of his mouth tipped up, though he didn’t take his eyes from the racetrack.

  The race continued, both of the horses outdistancing the rest. It was going to be close.

  Unable to take the suspense sitting down any longer, I stood, and Milo stood with me. I tore my eyes from the racetrack to look at him and saw he was watching with a look of serene intensity. How he could be so calm at a time like this was beyond me. I had watched him at the roulette table often enough, however, to know that he was never ruffled by the vagaries of chance. He loved the thrill of it, of standing on the precipice between victory and loss, waiting to see which way the chips would fall. I, on the other hand, felt rather like I might lose my breakfast.

  Jasmine and Galahad reached the final stretch neck and neck. They were both practically gleaming in the sunlight, their muscles rippling as they propelled themselves forward, inspired by some inborn sense of competition and the skillful urging of their riders.

  “Come on, Jasmine,” Lady Alma cried boisterously, her voice rising above the wild cheering of the crowd. “Come on!”

  I was certain that Jasmine was going to win. She had edged ahead ever so slightly as they neared the finish line. Their legs were all a blur, but I could see the tip of her nose edge past Galahad.

  And then, suddenly, Galahad shot forward in one final, triumphant burst of speed and shot across the finish line a nose ahead of Jasmine.

  The crowd roared its approval at the tight race, and I cheered with them.

  “We’ve won!” I cried, flinging myself into Milo’s arms, or as nearly as I could with my stomach between us.

  “Yes, we’ve won.” He laughed, leaning to drop a kiss on my lips.

  “Well done, Ames,” Lady Alma said with characteristic good grace. She extended her gloveless hand to him as he released me. “When you come by to collect, we’ll discuss that matter of your stallion.”

  “Indeed, we shall,” Milo agreed.

  He slipped an arm around me as the crowd began to disperse. “Well, darling, we’re a hundred pounds richer. How shall we spend our ill-gotten gains?”

  “Buy me something to eat,” I said decisively.

  * * *

  IT TURNED OUT Milo’s winnings were safe from my appetite. We went to the tea tent after the races for refreshments laid out by the local Ladies Charitable Society. The tea was hot and strong, and I added a liberal amount of sugar as I stacked a dainty plate with sandwiches and biscuits.

  Everyone was in high spirits after the race, and there was laughter and chatter over the clink and clatter of china and
silverware. A cool breeze was blowing, making the scalloped edges of the tent’s awning quiver and dance. It was all so very cozy and idyllic.

  Which made what was to come all the more startling.

  Milo had gone off to discuss horses with some of the other gentlemen, and I nibbled on a biscuit as I made my own way around the tent, talking to various villagers and congratulating the members of the Springtide Festival Committee for the success of the festival.

  Suddenly I spotted Mrs. Jane Hodges, Marena’s mother, moving in my direction. I had had enough of her company at her honey booth, but I realized that it was too late to avoid her.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ames. I trust you’ll collect your honey after tea is over?”

  “Yes, certainly,” I agreed. “Are you enjoying the festivities?”

  She frowned. “I don’t approve of horse racing. It only brings about gambling and all other manner of unsavory behavior.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s too much wickedness to be found here in Allingcross,” I said lightly.

  Her sharp eyes came up to meet mine, and I was surprised that the faintest hint of a smile showed on her lips. “Surely you, of all people, don’t believe that, Mrs. Ames.”

  I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to my past involvement with various murder investigations, which was common knowledge, or Milo’s reputation, which was also much discussed in the village.

  Before I had time to formulate a response, however, Marena approached us.

  “There you are, Mother,” she said brightly. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Looking for me? Nonsense. It’s you who’ve been gallivanting about. I looked for you before the races and you were nowhere to be found.”

  “I was just where I said I’d be,” Marena responded tersely.

  “You most certainly were not,” Mrs. Hodges sniffed, her gaze running up and down her daughter. “At least you’ve managed to keep yourself clean. I don’t know why you wore those light-colored shoes outdoors.”

  “I’m not a child, Mother.”

  “If you’ll just excuse me,” I said, realizing the only way to extricate myself from the conversation was the direct approach. “I have a matter I need to discuss with Mrs. Busby.”

  They continued their hushed argument as I moved away from them, looking for Mrs. Busby. I really had no direct business with her, but I knew that even Mrs. Hodges could not disapprove of my leaving them to talk to the vicar’s wife.

  I noticed her at one of the tables in the corner. She sat speaking to Inspector Wilson, of the local police.

  “How’s the tea, Mrs. Ames?”

  I turned to see the vicar approaching me with two full cups balanced on saucers. One for him and one for his wife.

  “Very good,” I told him. “Quite strong.”

  He smiled. “Oh, good. Last year they let Mrs. Hodges make the tea. Horrible, watery stuff.” He shuddered. “Uncharitable of me to say so, perhaps, but I do need a good strong cup of tea in the afternoon.”

  I nodded my agreement. “I seem to tire much more easily these days.”

  “And all the days to come, I’m afraid. Parenthood is not for the faint of heart.”

  I smiled. “No, I don’t imagine it is.”

  “For all that, it’s life’s greatest blessing. You’re going to enjoy it immensely.” Unlike his wife, the vicar was able to speak about children without sadness eclipsing his expression. I wondered if the faith incumbent in his profession had made it easier for him to accept a child’s death, somehow. Or perhaps it had just made it easier for him to hide his sorrow behind that constantly cheery expression.

  “I’m very much looking forward to it,” I told him.

  “I imagine you are. I think you—and Mr. Ames—will make wonderful parents.” I couldn’t help but wonder if the good vicar had fibbed just a bit on this last pronouncement. I knew a good many in the village had their doubts about Milo’s suitability for fatherhood.

  Happily, I didn’t share their misgivings. Whatever his faults, I was certain Milo was going to be an excellent father. His own father’s lack of interest in Milo’s life would be the impetus for his involvement as a parent.

  As for myself, in some ways, it was still strange to me to think that I would soon be a mother. Though I felt I had grown close to my baby in the time we had had together thus far, I still had my share of worries about motherhood. My own mother—both my parents, in fact—had always been somewhat distant, and I didn’t want to be that way with my own child. I hoped I could manage it all.

  “Thank you,” I said to the vicar. “I certainly hope so.”

  He must have sensed the hint of worry in my tone, for he smiled kindly. “It all seems rather terrifying at first, I know. After all, life is so precious, and it’s a great responsibility to have it in one’s charge. But as soon as you hold your child in your arms for the first time, it will come naturally. There’s nothing like it in the world.” He looked down at his hands and the teacups he still held in them. “Well, I suppose I had better deliver Mrs. Busby’s tea while it’s still hot. She is a stickler about her tea.”

  I smiled. “Yes, of course. I’ll come by and speak to her later. I wanted to tell her again how very well everything has turned out.”

  “That will mean a great deal. She takes pride in the festival. It’s important to her.”

  “Her devotion to its success is always apparent.”

  He went off with his teacups, and I moved toward Milo, who I saw had just finished his conversation with the victorious Mr. Yates. His eyes scanned the gathering until they alighted on me, and he smiled. I was caught for a moment in the warmth of his gaze, the intimate connection we had across a space crowded with people.

  Suddenly, there was the noise of some disturbance at one edge of the tent.

  “Mr. Ames! Mr. Ames!” I heard a voice calling from outside. Milo and I both turned to see Peter, one of the stable boys, hurrying from the direction of the boundary line between Thornecrest and Bedford Priory, his eyes wide, his face white.

  Milo moved toward him, and I quickly followed. We stepped out of the tent and reached him at nearly the same time.

  “What is it?” Milo asked in a low voice. I glanced back at the tea tent. Conversation continued much as normal. Aside from a few people at the edge of the tent, who briefly looked up at Peter’s arrival, it appeared we hadn’t drawn much notice. Shouting was not unusual at the festival, after all.

  There was definitely something unusual happening, however. Peter looked sick with fright or fear or some other dreadful emotion.

  The boy was out of breath. He bent over, trying to suck in air, muttering something incoherent.

  I stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Slow down, dear,” I told him gently. “Take a breath.”

  He drew in a ragged gasp, then another. “He … ground … need … help.”

  “What is it?” Milo asked again, his voice calm but insistent. “Is it one of the horses?”

  Peter shook his head, drawing in another deep breath. “It’s Bertie,” he gasped at last. “He’s fallen … off his horse … I … I think he’s dead.”

  10

  MILO FOLLOWED PETER off to the field in the direction of Thornecrest, and I went in search of the doctor. We hadn’t called attention to the accident, not wanting to cause a stir amongst the festivalgoers. Besides, I still harbored hope that Peter was simply mistaken, that Bertie might have been unconscious and hurt. He had fallen from a horse that day I had spoken to him in the stables; perhaps another accident had occurred and he would be all right.

  At last I located Dr. Jordan and told him what had happened. He hurried off, and I went back to the tea tent, looking out toward the fields but unable to see anything. I hoped that Milo and Peter would appear suddenly, helping a bruised but alive Bertie back so he could be properly tended to.

  I saw Peter a few minutes later. He was walking a bit slower, and Milo wasn’t with him.

  I had
hoped for the best, but as he drew nearer and I saw his face, I knew it was to be the worst instead.

  “Mr. Ames said for you to send the police,” he said in a low voice when he reached me.

  “The police?” I repeated, though I knew with certainty what that meant.

  Peter nodded, confirming it with his next words. “Bertie’s dead.” He was pale but composed. “A levelheaded lad,” Milo had often called him; it was proving to be true.

  I let out a breath, the shock of it hitting me, though I had half expected to hear the news. Poor Bertie. What a horrible thing to have happened.

  A part of me wanted to go to the scene, but I knew that Milo would chide me for making the trek across the field in my condition. Besides, I had seen enough death as of late to last me a lifetime. The mysteries in which we had been involved in the past two years had had their share of distressing events, and I knew firsthand the impact of discovering a dead body.

  I went with Peter toward the table where Inspector Wilson still sat with Mrs. Busby. He was a tall, thin man with silver-flecked hair and a thin mustache. I didn’t know him well, and I hoped that he would be ready to take charge of the crisis.

  “Excuse me,” I said in a low voice when I reached them. “I do hate to interrupt, but I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

  I glanced at Mrs. Busby and saw how she paled at the words. She knew better than most what a dreadful impact that phrase could have.

  “I’m afraid Bertie Phipps is … dead. He fell from his horse, between Thornecrest and Bedford Priory.”

  “Oh no,” Mrs. Busby breathed, her hand fluttering to her chest.

  “Peter here was the one who found him. He can show you the way. My husband and the doctor are already there.” I was still speaking in a low voice, but I was fairly certain the women at the neighboring table had overheard, for there was already the sound of distressed whispers coming from behind me. It was not as though we could keep the matter a secret for long, of course, but arousing the sympathies of a crowd could be detrimental rather than useful.