A Deception at Thornecrest

by Ashley Weaver

  To my relief, Inspector Wilson didn’t have much to say on the matter. He gave me a swift nod that told me he had understood and turned and followed Peter from the tent.

  I felt so helpless as I watched them leave. I wondered if there was someone from Bertie’s family that I should notify, but I couldn’t think of anyone. As far as I knew, he was very much alone in the world.

  Except, perhaps, Marena, or Lady Alma. I wondered if I should try to locate them.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  I looked down to see Mrs. Busby watching me worriedly.

  “Yes, quite all right,” I assured her. “It’s just so shocking.”

  “Do sit down. You’re quite pale.”

  “I … I was just thinking that someone ought to tell Lady Alma.”

  “Yes, the vicar can do that in a moment. Please sit down. It won’t do for you to faint.”

  I didn’t feel like I was going to faint, but I obeyed nevertheless, lowering myself into the seat beside her.

  The vicar arrived at our table just then, no doubt having noticed the commotion, and I felt the sense of relief that comes with knowing someone else is going to take charge of the matter. One could always rely on a vicar in general and Mr. Busby in particular. Mrs. Busby explained to him in a low voice what had happened.

  His face grew very grave. “I should find Marena.”

  Mrs. Busby gasped. “Oh, yes. I didn’t think … Of course, you must find her and tell her before she hears it from someone else.”

  We were, however, too late.

  Marena appeared suddenly at our table, out of breath, her face white. “Is it true? It’s not true, is it? Someone told me that Bertie … that he was…”

  I rose from my chair, hoping, selfishly, that someone would break the news to her before I needed to.

  “Marena, dear,” Mrs. Busby began gently.

  Marena shook her head. “No,” she said. “No. It’s not true. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it!” Her voice rose with each word until she was nearly shouting.

  It was the vicar, with his usual adeptness, that calmed her rising hysteria. He gently took her arms and spoke to her in a calm but firm voice. “He’s with the Lord now, Marena. No more harm can come to him.”

  She shook her head again, ever so slightly, as though she were trying to make sense of words spoken to her in some language she didn’t speak.

  And then she covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

  Between the vicar and me, we managed to usher her into the chair I had vacated beside Mrs. Busby’s wheelchair. Mrs. Busby leaned toward the girl, collecting her in her arms as best she could, and held her as her body shook with sobs.

  * * *

  IT SEEMED AGES as I waited for Milo to return to the tent. I thought of taking the car back to Thornecrest to wait for him there, but somehow I didn’t want to leave the site of the festival just yet. Word had spread quickly about the tragedy, and there was a sense of sorrowful camaraderie in those who remained at the refreshment tent. We all seemed to be waiting to see what would happen next.

  As there was nothing useful most of us could do, we sat drinking tea. I was certain my baby must be swimming in it by this point.

  To my relief, Mr. and Mrs. Busby had escorted an ashen and dazed Marena back to the vicarage. She had taken the news of Bertie’s death much harder than I expected. Though she had made it clear to me that she no longer had romantic feelings for him, it was clear something had lingered there. Her grief had been difficult to witness.

  At last Milo appeared at the edge of the tent. I rose quickly from my chair and hurried toward him.

  His clothes were muddy, and there was a spot of blood on his trousers. Bertie’s blood, I assumed, though I hadn’t imagined there would be blood from a fall. I felt a little wave of dizziness at the sight of it, and I was immensely glad that I hadn’t gone to the site of the incident.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, as though I was the one who had just spent over an hour at the site of a fatal accident.

  “Of course. Are you?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  I looked into his eyes, trying to read something of what he felt there, but his gaze was veiled. This was not the first time Milo had dealt with death, but I thought there must be something a little harrowing in it, even for him.

  Whatever he was feeling, he was clearly not in the mood to discuss it at present. Not that I blamed him; I felt numb and tired myself.

  He seemed to sense this. “You look all in, darling. I’m terribly sorry I kept you waiting, but the doctor and Inspector Wilson have taken everything in hand. Come,” he said, taking my arm. “I’ll take you home.”

  We left the tea tent behind and made our way through the festival grounds, which had begun to clear. Though many of the vendors were still open for business and several people milled about, there was a heaviness that seemed to hang over the proceedings. It seemed even the children had lost their enthusiasm, for the ones I spotted moved at a much more subdued pace than they had earlier in the day.

  The sun had begun to descend in the sky, bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. The breeze had grown cooler, but the cheerful flags and banners still swayed lazily, and the scent of flowers filled the evening air. It seemed the loveliness of it all almost mocked the somberness of what had happened.

  To think how happy we had all been this morning, how cheerful Bertie must have been as he readied himself for the race. He was so proud of his horse, Molly. Not only that, I was surprised that she had thrown him; she was the gentlest of the horses, even more docile than Paloma, who had always been known for her even temper.

  Something must have happened. Perhaps she had seen a hare or a fox in the field and bolted. I could think of no other reason why she might have thrown her rider.

  What was more, Bertie had told me that he knew how to fall. How dreadful it was that his words had been so quickly disproved.

  “That poor boy,” I said aloud. “What a dreadful thing to happen.”

  “Yes.”

  I glanced at Milo, caught by something in his tone, but he wasn’t looking at me. He seemed preoccupied.

  “Are you … sure you’re all right, Milo?” I asked again.

  He looked at me then, offering a reassuring smile that chased all hint of the shadows from his eyes. “Yes, quite sure. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I know you liked Bertie.”

  “I did. It’s a rotten thing to have happened.”

  “And I thought maybe it was rather a … grim scene.”

  “I’ve seen much worse.”

  He did have a point, though it wasn’t something I wanted to think about at present.

  We reached the car, and Milo opened my door and handed me in. I sank back against the leather seat and, leaning my head back and closing my eyes, breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t realized how very tired I was until now. I couldn’t wait to be back at Thornecrest.

  Milo got in and started the car, and we turned toward home.

  I watched the fields go by, bathed in the bright late-afternoon light, and caught sight of a few of Lady Alma’s horses grazing.

  A thought occurred to me suddenly.

  “What happened to Molly? Has she been found?” Despite what had happened, I hoped no harm had come to Bertie’s horse. He had doted on her and would have been devastated if she were injured.

  “He wasn’t riding Molly,” Milo said. “It appears it was Medusa, Lady Alma’s new horse, that threw him.”

  “Not Molly?”

  “No. Molly was in the paddock.”

  I frowned, confused. “Why on earth would he be riding Medusa?”

  “I don’t know. A saddle was found not far from Bertie, and Medusa was wandering near the barn. She’d clearly been in a state, for she was wild-eyed and lathered. Her right foreleg was scratched as well, as though she’d scraped it on a fence when she jumped.”

  “Is she going to be all right?”

&
nbsp; “I believe so. It took a good deal of effort to calm her, but I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.”

  I was glad to hear that, but something about the scenario didn’t seem to make sense. It was all so strange.

  “You don’t suppose Bertie planned to ride her in the race?” I asked. “Everyone would have known that it wasn’t his Molly.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think that’s what he was planning. I can’t imagine what might have induced him to ride her.”

  “It’s so horrible that something like this happened. What are the odds of such an accident?”

  He looked over at me, something flickering in his blue eyes. For a moment he said nothing, as though he was making some sort of decision. At last he spoke. “I don’t think it was an accident.”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean? What else could it have been?”

  Even as I said the words, I knew what his reply would be.

  “I think it was murder.”

  11

  IT TOOK A moment to absorb this information. It seemed impossible that it might be happening again, that we might find ourselves at the scene of another violent death, but Milo very seldom jumped to conclusions. I knew, if he thought it was murder, that there was a very good chance he was right. No wonder he had been so reticent, so lost in thought.

  It occurred to me that he had probably been debating whether or not to tell me about it. I was glad that he had chosen to, though I suspected it was more from the realization it could not be hidden long than from the desire to take me into his confidence where a crime was concerned.

  “What makes you think so?” I asked, surprised at how calm I sounded. The prospect of a murder practically on our doorstep was horrifying.

  “For one thing, it doesn’t make sense that he would’ve been riding Medusa. He knew better than that. Lady Alma is more fanatical about her horses than I am.”

  “Perhaps he was overcome with temptation.”

  “Right before he was to ride his own horse in the race?”

  What he said was true, but the fact remained that they had discovered Medusa loose and spooked. “But it seems he must have ridden her, doesn’t it?”

  “Either that or someone let her out after Bertie was dead in order to make it look like it.”

  Though I was always one to view matters with an eye for suspicion, I was skeptical. “That seems a bit far-fetched.”

  He smiled. “It seems our roles are reversed for once, darling. I’d like to believe I’m wrong, but you haven’t heard the evidence.”

  “By all means, carry on.”

  “When I put her back in her stall, I noticed that one of the lower rails was broken. I looked closer and saw a bit of blood. It looked fairly fresh. I think Medusa was rearing up and scratched her leg on it. That’s how she was hurt, not jumping a fence.”

  “You mean a stranger frightened her when they let her out.”

  “Something like that.”

  “And then the killer put the saddle near Bertie to make it look as though it had loosened and fallen off, taking Bertie with it,” I said, following his train of thought.

  “But Bertie wouldn’t have been that careless. Besides, there’s one more thing, irrefutable proof that Bertie wasn’t riding Medusa: she didn’t have a bit in. He wouldn’t have ridden her without reins.”

  “No,” I agreed, my mind racing. “But surely the killer must have realized that wouldn’t make any sense.”

  “Well, perhaps they had intended to bridle her. Alas, Medusa clearly wasn’t of a mind to cooperate. I’d wager she started rearing up and got out of her stall before the perpetrator could get close enough to accomplish it.”

  Another thought occurred to me, an unpleasant one. “If … if it wasn’t a fall that killed Bertie, what did?”

  “He was lying with a bloody rock near his head. Probably from that old stone wall that separates the Priory from Thornecrest. I’m fairly certain it must have been the murder weapon.”

  “But could someone hit him hard enough to kill him?” I felt a bit sick at the words and at the image they conjured up in my mind.

  “It was a sharp rock. A good blow or two might have done it.”

  “But they couldn’t have been sure it would work. It seems a haphazard way to kill someone?” I was trying to come up with any excuse I could as to why Milo might be mistaken. The possibility of murder seemed too horrible to contemplate.

  Milo was undeterred, however. “If it was done in the heat of the moment, it might not have been intended to kill. When it did, however, the killer was forced to cover his tracks and decided to use Medusa to do it.”

  “It was risky, wasn’t it? They might have been caught.”

  “Almost everyone at Bedford Priory was here at the festival. Lady Alma gave them all the day off. And that area of the field isn’t visible from the festival grounds. The killer must have realized there was little chance of being seen.”

  I let out a breath that was closer to a sigh. It was all so strange and ghastly.

  “What did Inspector Wilson say?” I asked. “Did you mention this to him?”

  “I did. It seemed to me that he was already thinking along the same lines. The doctor also thought there was something strange about the wound.”

  “Like what?” I didn’t really want to know, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from asking.

  “He said he didn’t see how he could have hit his head at that angle if the rock was lying on the ground and he’d fallen on it. He’s going to examine the body more closely. There’ll be an inquest, of course.”

  “Of course.” My mind was racing. An inquest. And then an investigation into who might have wanted to kill poor Bertie Phipps.

  I remembered his question to Milo the last time we had seen him. What did one do when a secret could hurt people? Had someone killed to keep that secret from coming to light?

  How dreadful this all was.

  What was worse was that I suddenly remembered the expression on Darien’s face after Bertie had hit him and the words he had uttered: “I’ll kill you for this.”

  * * *

  SHOULD I TELL Milo what his brother had said? I grappled with the question as he helped me out of the car back at Thornecrest before driving off to park it.

  I went straight to our bedroom, glad of a few moments of quiet solitude. I had given Winnelda the day off for the festival, but I expected her to burst upon the scene at any moment, asking about Bertie’s death.

  After turning on the bathtub faucets, I went back to my room and pulled one of my most comfortable nightdresses from the wardrobe. Though it was not yet six o’clock, I intended to bathe and get in bed, not leaving the comfort of my room until tomorrow.

  Before I could retreat to the bathroom, however, Milo came in. His appearance necessitated my making a decision about the matter of Darien.

  I wavered and then at last came out with it. “Milo, I think you should know. When Bertie hit Darien at the inn, Darien threatened to kill him.”

  I don’t know what reaction I expected. Perhaps surprise or alarm. I ought to have known better. The only expression that crossed his features was annoyance.

  “Did anyone hear him say it?”

  I nodded. “Marena Hodges and another girl who works at the inn.”

  He let out an irritated breath. He said nothing for a moment, apparently thinking over the implications of what I had told him.

  “It was probably an empty threat,” I said at last. “After all, Bertie had just struck him. Anyone is bound to say such a thing in the heat of the moment.”

  “Perhaps. But when the person one has threatened to kill turns up dead a few days later, it’s bound to look a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”

  I did indeed.

  What was more, we knew nothing about Darien. Nothing about his past or his temperament. We certainly couldn’t vouch for his character.

  I felt a sudden little pang in my side and put a hand to my stomach.<
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  Milo glanced over at me. “Are you all right, darling?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” He was watching me closely.

  “Quite sure. I think the baby is just a bit excited this evening. It’s been an eventful day, after all.”

  “I’m going to ring for the doctor.”

  I laughed. “Milo, don’t be silly. There’s nothing wrong. If we rang for the doctor every time this baby kicked me, he’d never have a chance to tend to anyone else.”

  I thought he was going to insist, but instead he came to me and placed a hand on my stomach. We were both still for a moment as the child moved. It was such a queer feeling to know that our baby was there, beneath the surface, waiting to make his entry into the world.

  Milo smiled down at me. “She’s certainly a lively little thing.”

  “Or he,” I replied. Milo insisted we were going to have a daughter. My instincts on the matter had varied often enough that I had given up trying to guess.

  “Perhaps she—or he—is intrigued by a mystery as much as we are,” I suggested.

  “Darling, even if Bertie was murdered, it doesn’t mean we need to get involved.”

  I sighed, turning toward the bathroom. “Somehow I had a feeling you’d say that.”

  “You have to admit that now, just before the baby is born, is not an ideal time to entangle ourselves in another murder investigation.”

  I knew he was right, of course, but that didn’t stop me from wondering who might have had reason to kill Bertie.

  A part of me hoped that this was all some mistake. Perhaps, upon closer inspection, the doctor would discover that it had been an accident after all. Even as I tried to convince myself that such a thing was possible, I knew it was very unlikely.

  As I went to turn off the water in the bathtub, my mind cast around for who else might be responsible for the murder. I didn’t know the young man well enough to know much about his relationships with the villagers, other than Marena. But surely she couldn’t be the only person with whom he’d had a close association.

  He had no family in the village, I knew that much. Bertie’s father had died when he was very young, and his mother had passed away shortly after I had moved to Thornecrest. Who else, then, might he have interacted with often enough to develop an enemy?