A Deception at Thornecrest

by Ashley Weaver

  “Yes, ma’am, but she wouldn’t eat it.”

  Mrs. Busby sighed. “All right. We’ll try again later.”

  The maid went out, and Mrs. Busby picked up the teapot, pouring for the both of us. “I knew it was a lost cause. She hasn’t touched a bite and has been crying on and off since it happened. Poor dear. It was terribly upsetting for her, and then Inspector Wilson came here and made things worse.”

  “Inspector Wilson came here?” I asked. “What did he want?”

  “He was asking questions about when she had last seen Bertie at the festival. I don’t think he realized, you see, that there had been a falling-out between them. I suppose he thought they had been enjoying the festival together and assumed Bertie might have told her that he meant to ride Lady Alma’s horse.”

  Mrs. Busby didn’t know, then, that Bertie had been murdered. The inquest was tomorrow, so it would only be a matter of time before word spread across the village.

  I realized, however, that my time for questioning people was limited. I would have to see what I could find out before the true manner of Bertie’s death was made public and the suspects were more on their guard.

  We drank our tea then and chatted of other things, though I had a difficult time making polite conversation when there was murder on my mind.

  “Would you like to talk to Marena now?” she asked after a few moments.

  “Yes, if you think she’ll see me.”

  “I’m sure she will. Just go up the stairs at the end of the hall, dear. Her door is the first on the right.”

  I followed her directions, wondering as I went what I would say to Marena. It was a complicated situation. To be honest, I found it a bit surprising that she was as broken up as she was. After all, she had ended things with Bertie and seemed to be infatuated with Darien. That was not to say, of course, that she didn’t still care for Bertie. But to take to her room and not eat seemed a bit of an extreme show of grief for losing a man one no longer loved. But perhaps she had decided that she loved him after all, now that it was too late.

  I tapped softly at the door to which Mrs. Busby had directed me. “Marena, it’s Amory Ames. May I come in?”

  There was a long moment of silence in which I wondered if she was sleeping or declining to answer, and then there followed the sound of footsteps. The door opened. Marena greeted me, her face streaked with tears. “Oh, Mrs. Ames,” she said. She looked out at me with red eyes. She had clearly been crying a great deal.

  “Hello, dear. How are you?”

  The tears welled in her eyes at the question. Perhaps it was silly of me to have asked it, but wasn’t all expression of condolence rather useless when it came down to it? Still, one must observe the niceties, even when they were inadequate.

  “Not very well,” she said, dabbing at the tears with a handkerchief. She was keeping herself together, but just barely.

  I thought somehow that Darien was unlikely to remain first in her heart now that Bertie had left a hole there. I had had my suspicions about her as a potential suspect, but it seemed to me that she was genuinely grieving. The sadness radiated from her.

  “I loved him, you know,” she said. “We didn’t always get along. We … we had an argument and parted ways. And then I met Darien, and I got carried away, perhaps. Darien is so handsome and charming. But there is some part of me that is always going to love Bertie. We understood each other. We were meant to be together, and now…” She stopped, drawing in a deep breath to keep back a sob. “So I’m not at all well, as I’m sure you can see. I just can’t believe that he’s dead.”

  “Yes, I know it’s been a great shock.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been dreadfully rude.” She stepped aside from the door, pulling it open. “Do you … do you want to come in?”

  “If I won’t be intruding.”

  “No. I … I suppose I could use some company.”

  I followed her into the room. It was a small and plain but cheerfully furnished space with lace curtains, a floral bedspread, and a vase of flowers on the table before the window. There was a single wooden chair near a small desk, which had a few papers scattered across the top, and she offered it to me. She quickly tidied the papers and put them in a drawer and then went to sit on the edge of her bed.

  “I haven’t felt like seeing anyone,” she said. “It’s just that I need some time to think.”

  I nodded. That was certainly understandable.

  “Bertie was always so very … alive. So strong and healthy. It seems impossible to me that he’s just … gone.”

  “Did you see Bertie at the festival?” I asked gently, hoping to carefully edge my way into asking useful questions. If Marena thought this odd, she didn’t show it.

  “No. After I spoke with you, I was busy helping Aunt Elaine. It wasn’t until I saw people talking excitedly that I realized something dreadful had happened. Then I heard what they were saying.” Her voice caught.

  I felt a pang of sympathy for her, learning about his death that way.

  “I was cruel to him that day at the inn,” she said softly. “I should have explained things better, should have…”

  I reached out to pat her hand. “You shouldn’t think about that now, dear. It’s not going to do any good.”

  “I know, but I can’t help thinking…” She looked up at me, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Will you … will you tell Darien? I can’t bear to see him.”

  “He’s supposed to come to Thornecrest tomorrow. I’ll let him know that you’re in need of some time.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Thank you, no. I suppose this is something I shall just have to face alone.”

  I said my goodbyes and left the vicarage a short time later. A part of me was unsettled. Why had Bertie broken into the vicar’s desk drawers, if indeed he had done so? Had he found something in the documents, the secret he had been debating whether or not to reveal? Was Marena’s grief truly genuine? Did Inspector Wilson believe that she, or one of the Busbys, was guilty of the crime?

  Unfortunately, I was leaving the vicarage with more questions than answers.

  * * *

  “LADY ALMA IS in the drawing room, madam,” Grimes said when I arrived home. “She’s been here a quarter of an hour.”

  This was a bit of luck. I had been hoping she would ring me when she returned from her ride, but turning up at Thornecrest was even better.

  “Thank you, Grimes. I’ll go to the drawing room at once. Will you send some coffee?”

  “It’s already been prepared, madam. I will have it brought to you directly.”

  “Thank you.” As I had often said, Grimes was a treasure.

  I went to the drawing room and found Lady Alma pacing the floor. Her energy appeared as high as ever, but her face, when she turned to me, was drawn and grim.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Ames. I came to see your husband, but Grimes tells me he’s not in, so I said I’d wait for you.”

  It seemed, then, that she had not yet been home and received my card.

  “Milo’s gone off to London for the day, I’m afraid, but I was hoping to speak with you. Sit down, will you, Lady Alma? Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “That would be very nice, thank you. I’ve been out riding all morning and could use with a bit of refreshment.”

  “Yes, I stopped at the Priory this morning and they told me you’d gone out.”

  The maid brought in the coffee just then and set it on the table as Lady Alma and I settled ourselves in our seats. At least, I settled myself; Lady Alma was shifting uncomfortably in her chair. I wondered for a moment if there was something amiss with the seat, but then I realized it was merely her restless energy.

  “I wanted to offer you my condolences on Bertie’s death. I know you were fond of him.”

  “It’s a pity,” she said. “A real pity.”

  “Yes. A tragedy.”

  I poured her a cup of coffee
from the pot on the table and handed it to her.

  She took it with a steady hand that belied her apparent agitation. Then, to my surprise, she reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a silver flask, uncorking the lid and pouring a generous amount of the liquid into her coffee.

  “Would you … care for a glass of something stronger?” I asked, gesturing toward the sideboard.

  “That isn’t necessary. Thank you.”

  She replaced the flask and then took a long drink of her coffee. When she set the cup back in the saucer with a little clank of china on china, I could see that she had nearly drained it.

  Lady Alma was not a sentimental sort of woman, but I could see that, despite Dr. Jordan’s assessment that she had been primarily concerned with her horse, she was troubled by Bertie’s untimely death. Bertie had spent a good deal of time with Lady Alma in the past, and I had always thought she had looked on him with affection.

  “I was very fond of that boy. He had the makings of an excellent horseman. And he was a kind, gentle young man.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, both of us lost in our own thoughts.

  “I wondered when he wasn’t at the race,” she mused. “To think he was lying dead in my field.” There was, as I had often noted, a startling brusqueness to her words, but I could hear the sadness that lay beneath it.

  “It would have been quick, I suppose,” I said, seizing upon what bit of comfort I thought I could offer. If Bertie had been struck hard enough to kill him, he wouldn’t have been conscious long. It was a grim thought, but it was something to know that he wouldn’t have suffered.

  “Yes,” Lady Alma agreed. “I doubt he knew what hit him.”

  It was an interesting choice of words. I wondered if she, too, suspected there was something amiss about his death. After all, Bertie had once told me that Lady Alma liked to say that the secret to avoiding injury was all in how one fell.

  “It’s so dreadful that rock should have been in just that place,” I said, watching for her reaction. “To think that if he had fallen and hit his head anywhere else it might have been all right.”

  Her eyes came up to me, and I could see that there was a sharpness in them. Lady Alma was nobody’s fool. “It’s dreadful indeed.”

  “Is Medusa all right?” I asked. “I understand she was injured.”

  Her expression brightened ever so slightly. “Yes, she’s all right. I was terribly worried about her, but I think her foreleg is going to heal nicely. I don’t see that there will be any lasting difficulty.”

  I knew she had been worried about Medusa. I was glad the horse was going to be fine. I was glad, too, that the animal hadn’t really been responsible for Bertie’s death. I knew that would have been a difficult thing for Lady Alma to accept. Of course, she didn’t know that yet. I wondered if I should tell her or wait for her to learn about the true cause of death at the inquest.

  I decided not to mention it for the moment.

  It turned out, however, that I was the one who was about to be surprised.

  “I wanted to speak to Mr. Ames because it happened on the border of our properties,” she said, setting her empty coffee cup on the edge of the table, “and I suppose we should decide together how best to go about things.”

  “Go about what things?” I asked, taking a sip of my coffee. Was she anticipating some sort of trouble about Bertie’s death?

  “The police and all that. But then it occurred to me that perhaps I should speak to you first. After all, you’re the crime solver in the family, aren’t you? Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you can’t be involved. Never thought women should be excluded from doing what they’re good at just because of biology.”

  I frowned, at a complete loss. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Once again that sharp gaze met mine, and I noticed she had suddenly gone completely still, almost like a tiger prepared to pounce. “Bertie’s death wasn’t an accident. Surely you realize that. I’m quite convinced that Marena’s mother killed him.”

  13

  “MRS. HODGES?” I repeated. “You think she’s responsible?”

  Lady Alma sat back in her chair. She seemed much more at ease now that she had come out with what she had meant to say. Or perhaps the brandy she had poured into her coffee had something to do with it. Whatever the case, there was a spark in her eye that seemed to me almost as vibrant as the moment she had stood watching the races at the festival.

  “Bertie told me a week or so ago he had a secret, a secret that concerned Mrs. Jane Hodges. He wondered if he should tell someone.”

  My brows rose. So he had confided in Lady Alma the nature of his secret, had he? That certainly narrowed things down.

  “Did he tell you what it was?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No. I tried to get it out of him, but he said he needed to think about it a bit longer before he decided what to do.”

  I had to admit, I found this source of the secret a bit surprising. Even disappointing, in some strange way. What sort of secret could Mrs. Hodges be hiding? The woman had always been sour and grim, and I had a hard time imagining that she had ever lived the sort of life that might create secrets worth killing for.

  Then again, I had seen for myself the sort of violent acts that desperate people were capable of. Mrs. Hodges, I was sure, was no exception.

  “I saw the scene myself,” she went on. “That boy didn’t hit his head on a rock in a fall. What nonsense. Every child knows better than to fall onto its head. And Bertie was a good and careful horseman. And, anyway, he wouldn’t have ridden Medusa. He knew better.”

  “That may be so…” I began carefully, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand.

  “Mark my words. The inquest will show tomorrow that he was killed.”

  “Even if that’s so, it doesn’t mean that Mrs. Hodges was responsible, secret or not.”

  “But, you see, I haven’t told you the most striking fact as of yet.” She paused, and I couldn’t help but feel she was enjoying the intensity of her tale. “I saw her walking from the direction of that field after the races. She had been at her booth, selling honey, before the races started. She would’ve had no reason to be in that field.”

  “Perhaps she was merely taking a walk during the races,” I suggested lamely. “After all, she doesn’t much care for festivities.”

  “That might be the case. But why, then, did she leave the festival and then appear later in different clothes?”

  I considered this. I hadn’t noticed it at the time, but she was right. Mrs. Hodges had been wearing a different dress when I saw her in the tea tent. “You think she had blood on her clothes.”

  “The weather was fair and the ground dry. What other reason might she have had to change her clothes?”

  It was fairly compelling circumstantial evidence, as far as it went. “Did you say anything to the police about this?”

  “Not yet. That Inspector Wilson was rushing around, ordering people about. There wasn’t time. Besides, he thought it was an accident like everyone else. I don’t think the man would know a murder if it hit him on the head. It’ll be the doctor that will find out what really happened. Jordan’s always been a clever man.”

  I opened my mouth, not quite sure what to say. Should I tell her that Milo had similar suspicions? Somehow, I thought I should keep this information to myself for the time being. It didn’t much matter, anyway, as Lady Alma was already rising to her feet.

  “Pass this information along to your husband so it doesn’t take him by surprise at the inquest. I thought you should both be aware of what’s to come. I won’t keep you longer. And, anyway, I need to change the poultice on Medusa’s leg. Good day, Mrs. Ames.”

  And with that, she turned and walked briskly out of the room without waiting for my response.

  * * *

  I HAD A good deal to discuss with Milo that evening when he returned home from London. I managed to keep from mentioning Bertie’s death
during dinner, as I knew the servants would be curious about what we had to say. I thought it would be best to keep things as quiet as possible. It wouldn’t do, after all, for word of what we knew to get back to the killer, whoever he might be.

  I still had my doubts about Mrs. Hodges, but I certainly didn’t intend to rule her out.

  At last we were alone in the drawing room, drinking our after-dinner coffee as Milo smoked. I sat on the velvet divan near the fireplace and Milo sat in a chair by the open window, as I had been sensitive to his cigarette smoke as of late. Since I had overcome the morning sickness of the early stages of my pregnancy, few things had made me feel ill, but the strong scent of cigarettes did. In consequence, Milo had been smoking much less.

  It was nice in the room with the window open, for the weather remained pleasant. We had a small fire crackling in the grate to ward off any chill, but the occasional cool evening breeze blew across the room, bringing with it the scent of the early lilacs outside.

  I might have thought it a very romantic evening on another occasion, but tonight my mind was elsewhere.

  “Lady Alma was here today,” I told Milo, breaking into the comfortable silence.

  “Was she?” Milo asked, rising from his chair to toss his cigarette out the window and pull it closed. “Was she still in a state about her horse?”

  “No, about something else. She thinks Mrs. Hodges killed Bertie.”

  He turned to look at me. It was hard to tell what his reaction to this bit of news was, for he said nothing, waiting for me to continue.

  I quickly related my conversation with Lady Alma that day and her certainty that Marena’s mother was the killer.

  “I find it hard to imagine that Mrs. Hodges would bash someone’s head in,” Milo said contemplatively. “Then again, she’s always been an utter gorgon. Perhaps such a thing would be just to her taste.”

  “This is a serious matter, Milo.”

  “I’m being serious,” he replied, though the corner of his mouth tipped up ever so slightly. “I wonder what kind of secret he knew about her?”