A Deception at Thornecrest

by Ashley Weaver

  “What about the stable boys?” I called to Milo from the bathroom.

  He came to the doorway. “What about them?”

  “Do you think Bertie might have quarreled with any of them?”

  I didn’t like to believe that this might have come about from some misunderstanding between fellow employees, but such things had been known to happen.

  “I see you’re taking my objections to heart,” Milo said dryly.

  “It doesn’t hurt to consider the options, in case we have anything that might be relevant to take to the police.”

  One of Milo’s dark brows went up ever so slightly, denoting his skepticism, but he didn’t argue with me. “I’ll speak with Geoffrey,” he said. “He’d know if anyone would.”

  I agreed that the stable master would be the best place to start. Though I was very curious about what he would have to say, I thought I would leave that aspect of things to Milo. It was never entirely satisfying to listen to someone else’s recounting of an interview, but it made sense for Milo to be the one to speak with the stable hands; I didn’t think they would confide in me as easily as they would in him. They were comfortable with Milo and knew what went on in the stables. Perhaps he could even find a way to learn something from Lady Alma’s stable personnel.

  “But I don’t think it was any of them,” Milo went on. “None of them had any reason to kill Bertie.”

  “Do you think it might have had something to do with the horses?” I asked. “A great many people were placing bets for the festival. Perhaps he got in with the wrong crowd.”

  “I doubt the stakes would’ve been high enough for such a thing, not among the local crowd. If they had, I’d have heard about it.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  We were both silent for a moment, lost in our own thoughts.

  “I saw the vicar giving him an envelope of some sort,” I said suddenly. “In a surreptitious manner.”

  Milo was not impressed with this bit of information. “It might have been anything. After all, Bertie was often at the vicarage. Perhaps he left something there, and the vicar returned it in an envelope.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, though this explanation wasn’t entirely satisfactory. “You remember what Bertie said to you, about knowing a secret? It was shortly after his encounter with the vicar.”

  “The two needn’t be connected. Though the thought did occur to me that Bertie had mentioned a harmful secret.”

  At last we were on the same page.

  “What if someone knew he was considering revealing it and decided he had to be silenced?” I suggested, trying to keep the excitement from my voice.

  Milo considered this. “It’s possible.”

  I wished now we had pressed Bertie when he asked the question. But there was no guarantee he would have revealed anything to us. And we had no way of knowing that he’d be dead a short time later.

  Whose secrets might he have had access to? The first person that came to mind was Lady Alma. Was it possible that she had had something to do with his death? Casting my mind back, I could not recall having seen her at the festival before the races. In fact, she had arrived at the enclosure late and out of breath. That would have been about the time Bertie was killed.

  Lady Alma and Bertie had had a close relationship, almost a friendship, though neither of them probably would have couched it in such terms. Might her feelings for Bertie have taken a turn in a more romantic direction? I quickly pushed this idea aside. Lady Alma had never shown any interest in men or marriage. She was rumored to have turned down several marriage proposals in her youth, choosing instead a life of solitary independence. From all I had seen, it had suited her well.

  But it was still possible she might have had motive to kill him.

  Though it wasn’t nice, perhaps, I could picture it being the sort of murder Lady Alma would commit. She would have been brisk and efficient about it, eliminating the object of her scorn with a few well-placed blows.

  “Do you think Lady Alma might have killed Bertie?” I asked. “Perhaps there was something she wanted to keep quiet, and Bertie found out about it.”

  “The same might be said for any number of people.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  He studied me. “Have you some particular reason to suspect Lady Alma?”

  I shook my head. “No. And I suppose she would have been able to get the bit in Medusa’s mouth if anyone would. Nevertheless, we’ve learned not to rule people out, haven’t we?”

  “We have indeed,” he said, coming to me. “But this time it’s not our concern. I can already see that mind of yours spinning, and I don’t want you to worry about it, darling.”

  “I’m not worrying, particularly. Just thinking.”

  He let out a sigh as he turned to leave me to my bath. “That’s how it always starts.”

  * * *

  THE DOCTOR CAME to visit the next morning after breakfast.

  “I thought it best that I looked you over after your recent … excitement,” he had explained when Grimes had shown him into the morning room.

  “I feel perfectly fine.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. But it doesn’t hurt to be cautious, now, does it?”

  I was certain that Milo had put him up to this. Milo, though he gave every appearance of being completely sanguine about my condition, had been watching me like a hawk ever since he had discovered I was pregnant. As my husband had hastily departed for London after breakfast, I could not even shoot him angry looks as I gave way to the suggestion and led the doctor up to my bedroom.

  It wasn’t exactly comforting to know that, only a few hours ago, the doctor had been examining the dead body of Bertie Phipps. I suppose that was the sort of contrast that made up a doctor’s life: the never-ending cycle of life and death.

  The examination proved satisfactory; the baby was much less exuberant this morning than it had been the evening before but still sufficiently active to assure the doctor of its progress. I told him I had been eating and sleeping well and taking exercise.

  At last he put his Pinard horn in his black bag and sat back in his chair. “Still planning to have the baby here, rather than in London?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  My mother was quite adamant that I wasn’t going to give birth in a hospital. “Filthy places,” she had sneered. “Full of disease and all manner of unpleasant things. I gave birth to you in the comfort and cleanliness of my own house. If it was good enough for me, I think it should be good enough for you.”

  Milo, surprisingly enough, seemed to agree with her on this issue. “You’ve got the best care here that you could want,” he had told me. “And Thornecrest is much more comfortable than the flat.”

  Dr. Jordan said he saw no reason why I shouldn’t have the baby at home. In truth, I liked the idea of staying in my comfortable room much more than I did going to a strange place. But there was still some time to make my final decision.

  “A good four weeks yet, I should imagine,” he said. “I’ve known a good many first-time mothers to go past the expected date. Just try to rest and not overexcite yourself.”

  This was as good an opening as any.

  “It was quite distressing about Bertie,” I said, hoping he might have some sort of comment on the subject.

  Dr. Jordan was not the sort of cheery country doctor one might hope for when probing for information. He had always been a bit stiff and formal, though certainly kind enough. I didn’t hold out much hope that he was going to give me information about Bertie’s unfortunate death.

  “You’d do better not to think about it. A woman in your condition ought to think pleasant thoughts.”

  I clenched my teeth before I could retort on just what I thought of his apparent wilting violet philosophy concerning pregnant women.

  “Mr. Ames had … blood on his clothes,” I said, as though it had been very upsetting to me. “I suppose … I suppose it was Bertie’s blood.”

 
; “It might have been the horse’s,” he said, neatly sidestepping my question.

  “But poor Bertie hit his head, didn’t he? On a sharp stone from the wall? My husband and Lady Alma have always kept that wall in such excellent repair. I don’t know how that stone might have come loose.”

  He looked up at me, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. I think he suspected what I was about and was trying to decide which tack to take.

  Surely he must have known that Milo would have told me about the cause of Bertie’s death. Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps he thought that Milo treated me with kid gloves, especially in my condition.

  At last, he made his reply. “Bertie’s death was most unfortunate, Mrs. Ames. But I don’t think you should concern yourself with that. You’ve much happier things to think about. We want you in a good frame of mind when the delivery comes.”

  It seemed there was nothing for me to do but take the most direct approach.

  “My husband tells me he has reason to believe that Bertie Phipps was murdered.”

  To the doctor’s credit, his face revealed nothing. I suppose he had had a good deal of practice at concealing his thoughts over the years. A doctor needed tact, after all, and the ability to conceal a reaction to unpleasantness. And it was unpleasant to him, I was quite sure, to have the matter put so openly.

  “As I said, Mrs. Ames. That’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  I could see I wasn’t going to get anything else out of him. It was disappointing, but I had known better than to expect much. An idea occurred to me, however, and I decided to try one more change of tactic.

  “Lady Alma is very distressed, I suppose.”

  He looked at me rather closely, I thought, but I maintained an air of perfect innocence.

  “Lady Alma was upset, yes.”

  “I believe she and Bertie were close.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, a reaction that hovered somewhere on the strange border between amusement and disapproval. “It wasn’t so much Bertie she was upset about.”

  I hesitated, confused, and then understood his meaning. “The horse, Medusa.”

  He nodded. “Oh, she was sorry Bertie was dead. But she was distraught about the horse, or as distraught as Lady Alma will allow herself to be. One never sees much emotion from her unless it’s related to the horses. Wouldn’t let any of the grooms near it. She wanted me to look at the blasted thing’s leg. Me, a medical doctor. With a dead body lying there in the field.”

  So Lady Alma had appeared more concerned about the horse than she had about Bertie, had she? This was an interesting bit of information.

  Granted, Lady Alma had never much lived by the normal rules of society, and one could not expect her to react accordingly. Bertie might have been like a favorite nephew to her, but she called her horses her children.

  Dr. Jordan shook his head and then rose to his feet.

  “I suppose that is all for now, Mrs. Ames. But just ring me up if you need me to come by. Otherwise, I’ll stop in in a week or so to check on your progress.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Jordan.”

  He reached the door but stopped and turned to give me one last glance. “I know you’ve been privy to investigations into untimely deaths in the past, but I do hope you won’t get involved in anything too … arduous over the next few days.”

  I smiled, dismissing his kindly warning. “Of course not, doctor. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  12

  AFTER THE DOCTOR had gone, I went directly to Bedford Priory. I wanted to have a word with Lady Alma.

  I was quite disappointed when I was told she had gone out riding and was not expected back for the better part of the morning. It was like her, of course, to escape tragedy on the back of a horse. I would just have to speak with her later.

  I left my card for her and, returning to where Markham waited with the car, decided to proceed to the vicarage. Ostensibly, I was going to check on Marena. I wanted to offer my condolences. Of course, a part of me also wanted to see what Mr. and Mrs. Busby might have to say about the matter of Bertie’s death. After all, the vicar and his wife were likely to have excellent insight.

  Whatever Milo said, I knew I was not going to be able to rest until the matter was resolved. Though I had been exhausted the night before, I had had a difficult time falling asleep, a fact I would never have admitted to Dr. Jordan. Tossing and turning beside Milo, who slept as soundly as ever, I had gone over and over in my mind who, aside from Darien, might have had reason to kill Bertie.

  There was Marena, of course. They had parted ways, but Bertie seemed to be standing in the way of her happiness with Darien. Might they have had a quarrel and she, in a fit of passion, hit him with that rock?

  But no. She had been so devastated when she learned of his death. Surely she couldn’t have been feigning her sorrow. In my heart, however, I knew the truth. Almost anyone was capable of hiding what they had done.

  Though it was an uncomfortable thought, I also considered the vicar and Mrs. Busby. I couldn’t picture either of them resorting to such a thing. Besides, it would have been almost impossible for Mrs. Busby to get across the field in her chair.

  The vicar was another story. It was entirely possible that he might have followed Bertie and quarreled with him, hitting him over the head. Indeed, I remembered that he had not been at Mrs. Busby’s side in the tea tent when I had first entered it. And there had been the matter of the tense conversation I had witnessed between him and Bertie and the envelope that had passed between them. What had been in it? Had they continued their discussion in the privacy of the field where the vicar had resorted to violence?

  I shook off the thought. It was dreadful of me to even think such things about a man of the cloth. There must be some other answer.

  I had to think that Bertie’s comment about knowing a secret had been unrelated to the interaction with the vicar. It must have been something else he had seen or overheard that had put him in danger.

  I arrived at the vicarage, and the maid showed me into the parlor. A few moments later she wheeled Mrs. Busby into the room. I smiled, perhaps a bit too brightly, trying to hide my guilt for wondering, however fleetingly, if she or her husband might have killed Bertie Phipps.

  “Hello, Amory dear. I’m glad to see you.” Her voice was pleasant, but she looked tired.

  “I’ve come to see how Marena is doing. I know yesterday was a great shock.”

  “Yes indeed.” She shook her head sadly. “She’s taken it very badly, I’m afraid. I wonder if you would speak with her. I think it would do her good.”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied. “I’ll be only too happy to do what I can.”

  “Sometimes it’s better, I think, to have someone a bit more distant to give advice. Perhaps that’s one reason a vicar, in general, is so comforting in times of crisis. There is a different perspective one gains from talking to someone outside the sphere of family. But in Marena’s case, of course, the vicar and I are very much like family to her.”

  “Family is often the strongest source of comfort.” I couldn’t help but think about Marena’s mother. I didn’t mention Mrs. Hodges, though it seemed that Mrs. Busby noticed the omission.

  “Her mother was here, but I told her perhaps it would be best if she came back later. Marena was in such a state. I don’t think it would have helped to see her. Mrs. Hodges isn’t … precisely a sympathetic person.” This bit of understatement was said with apparent sincerity and none of the usual malicious pleasure that edged the tones of village gossips. I could sense, however, that she wanted to discuss it.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Mrs. Hodges has never seemed to me to be exceptionally … maternal.”

  She shook her head sadly. “She brought a basket of some of her honey and preserves for Marena. Her attempt at offering some comfort, I suppose. But she’s not a warm woman. Even the way she spoke about Bertie’s death was so very … casual. I knew it would have hurt Marena to hear it. ‘I’m told she broke t
hings off with him,’ she said, ‘so I don’t know why she should appear so distressed.’ As though the young man’s death meant nothing. Why, even after what happened here, I am quite broken up about it. We’d known Bertie since he was a child, you know.”

  That phrase caught my attention. “What do you mean? What happened here?”

  She blinked, as though suddenly realizing what she had said. “Oh, nothing. That is, I didn’t mean to…” She sighed. “Well, we had a bit of unpleasantness with Bertie. I didn’t intend to bring that up. I wouldn’t speak ill of the dead, not for all the world.”

  “To be honest, I had heard a bit of gossip,” I said lightly. “That is, someone mentioned that some items had gone missing from the vicarage and that Bertie was suspected.”

  Mrs. Busby flushed. “Whoever told you that?”

  “I … heard it from one of my servants. You know how gossip spreads.”

  She sighed. “Yes, it’s true. I’m afraid Mr. Busby found Bertie in his study one day. He didn’t think much of it, but later he noticed some things had gone missing.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” she said vaguely. “A few silver trinkets, I believe. The lock was broken on his desk, though there was nothing there but documents.”

  I was intrigued by this bit of information. Bertie had been rifling through the vicar’s documents, had he? Was it possible he had learned something there that someone might not have wanted him to know?

  “Were there any documents missing?” I asked casually.

  “Oh, as to that, I couldn’t say. I’m not even sure Mr. Busby could. He keeps everything, you know. He always means to put his records in order, but he’s so very busy.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The maid tapped at the door just then and came in with the tea tray.

  “Did you bring something up to Miss Marena?” Mrs. Busby asked her.