“I have to go back to London tomorrow,” he said as he leaned back against his pillows.
“All right.”
“I shall perhaps have to stay overnight.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I could sense his eyes on me, but I didn’t look at him. At last he leaned over and switched off the light.
There was silence, except for the rustle of bedclothes and the slightest creak of the springs as Milo settled himself beside me.
I resisted the urge to sigh loudly. I didn’t like us being at odds. I wanted to discuss things with him, to be the team we had learned to be over the course of several other investigations. It seemed strange that this one, which ought to matter most to him, was the one he had set himself against.
The baby kicked hard, and I gasped in surprise and shifted uncomfortably in the bed, trying to find a better position.
“Are you all right?” Milo asked into the darkness.
“Yes. I just can’t seem to get comfortable.”
“I’ll fetch you some extra pillows, shall I?”
He got up without waiting for my answer and moved with ease across the dark bedroom. I heard the door to the adjoining room open, and a moment later he returned with pillows.
“Thank you,” I said as he helped to arrange them around me in a passably comfortable configuration. I hadn’t anticipated all the little ways in which pregnancy would change my life, least of all the ways in which I walked and slept.
Milo slid back into bed, and we settled again into the quiet darkness.
“I meant it, Amory,” he said at last.
“Meant what?” I asked, though I knew perfectly well what he was talking about. Pillows or no, he had not softened his stance.
“We’re not going to get involved with Darien’s case,” he said, his tone lacking the edge it had held earlier, despite the words. “He’ll be condemned or go free based on the evidence, not on whatever sort of information we can dredge up about alternate suspects.”
I was not going to argue with him; it would be useless.
“If that’s the way you feel,” I said at last.
“It is.”
There was silence for a moment.
“I know I can’t keep you from going around asking questions, as you’re bound to do while I’m gone, but I’m asking you not to muddy the waters. Let the police do their job.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I wouldn’t make any promises I didn’t intend to keep.
When I didn’t reply, he let out the sigh I had been so valiantly holding in. “If you’re determined to go about nosing into village business, I don’t want to hear about it.”
If that was the way he wanted it, that was the way it would be.
“You needn’t worry,” I said coolly. “I shan’t breathe a word.”
* * *
ONCE I WAS rid of Milo the next morning, after a strained breakfast in which neither of us went out of the way to be pleasant to the other, I went about plotting my next course of action.
As far as I could see, there were, besides Darien, six possible suspects: Mrs. Hodges, Marena, Lady Alma, Imogen, the vicar, and Mrs. Busby.
Mrs. Hodges was under consideration based on Lady Alma’s suspicions. Granted, I had only Lady Alma’s word to go on. It was common knowledge, however, that Mrs. Hodges had never approved of her daughter’s young man. Perhaps there was some motive of which we had no knowledge. There was, too, the question of whether he might have learned something about her, some secret she wished to keep hidden.
Marena was a suspect for the obvious reason: a lover’s quarrel of some sort. Though they had parted ways, she was still angry at him for having struck Darien. Might she have confronted him and hit him in a fit of passion? I thought it unlikely, given how distraught she was at his death. But, then again, guilt and grief had many of the same symptoms.
As for Lady Alma, it was possible Bertie knew something about her and she had killed him to hide it and then tried to lay the blame elsewhere, claiming Bertie had learned a secret about Mrs. Hodges. I didn’t like to think such a thing of Lady Alma, but it was possible.
Imogen wasn’t necessarily a good suspect. After all, she hadn’t known Bertie. But she had implicated Darien in his murder. Was it possible she had committed the crime in order to frame the man who had scorned her? It was a bit far-fetched, but not impossible.
Then there was the vicar and Mrs. Busby. While I was reluctant to include them, I could not entirely discount them. After all, Bertie had allegedly broken into the vicar’s desk drawer. Had he discovered something that one of them thought it necessary to kill to conceal?
I sighed. There were so many possibilities and none of them much better than the last.
I decided the best place to start would be with Mrs. Hodges, especially as it was apparently she who had some secret that Bertie had known.
I had Markham, our driver, drive me to the Hodges home. It was a small, tidy cottage set away from the village. Contrary to Mrs. Hodges’s stern personality, the house had a cheery appearance. The shutters were painted a bright yellow and the fence was a spotless white. There was a profusion of flowers around the outside: hyacinth, daffodils, narcissus, and foxglove. All the better to attract the bees she loved.
I stepped from the car and noticed a bicycle resting against the gate just as Marena came out of the house.
She looked up when she saw me, froze for a moment, and then came quickly toward me. Her hair appeared windblown, though she had just come from inside, and her face was red.
“Oh, Mrs. Ames. Have they arrested Darien?” she asked. “Have they really?” She was gripping the gate so tightly her knuckles had turned almost as white as the wood.
Word certainly traveled fast in the village.
“Do try to calm down, dear…”
“But my mother just said someone had been arrested, that it was a relation of yours. I had to get out of the house before I screamed…”
“Listen to me, Marena,” I said, gently but firmly. “You’re not going to do Darien—or yourself—any good by going to pieces. You must calm down. Do you understand?”
My schoolmarm tone of voice seemed to do the trick, for she nodded. Drawing in a deep breath, she brushed the loose strands of hair from her face and seemed to collect herself.
I reached out to pat her hand, noticing her grip on the gate had lessened ever so slightly. “That’s better, isn’t it? The best way to face the news is calmly.”
“Then they did arrest him?”
“Yes, but…”
As I was afraid would be the case, she burst into tears as soon as I confirmed the story. I felt sorry for her, especially as I was fairly certain Mrs. Hodges had not been at all sympathetic.
“Did you tell your mother about your relationship with Darien?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. She merely told me that some relation of yours had been arrested. I had to try to hide my distress from her. When I saw you, I couldn’t bear it any longer.”
I looked back toward the door of her mother’s house, wondering if I should take her inside. I was fairly sure Mrs. Hodges would only make the situation worse.
Marena sniffed loudly then and looked up at me, her eyes bright. “He didn’t do it, Mrs. Ames. I know he didn’t.”
I studied her, her tawny eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know what to say to her. She appeared as though she truly believed what she was saying. But how could she know? She had been acquainted with Darien for less than a fortnight.
“The police will investigate the matter thoroughly. I’m sure they’ll come to the truth.” I was a bit disgusted with myself for repeating Milo’s platitudes when what I really wanted to do was tell her I was investigating the matter. I knew, however, that I couldn’t afford to take anyone into my confidence.
“But … what will happen if…” she whispered.
I knew what she was asking. What would happen if Darien were convicted of the crime? I didn’t feel as
though Marena was in the best state of mind at the moment to dwell on the possible outcomes.
“We won’t worry about that now,” I said gently.
“That girl did it, didn’t she?” she said suddenly, anger sparking in her eyes. “She told the police, mother said. I think she’s the one who killed Bertie.”
“What girl?” I asked, reluctant to share the information with which Imogen had entrusted me.
“Imogen. She probably killed Bertie and tried to frame Darien for it.”
I had considered the same possibility, but hearing it aloud made it seem even more unlikely than it had in my head. “Wouldn’t she have just killed Darien if she were so desperate for revenge?” I pointed out.
She shook her head stubbornly. “She has something to do with all of this, I’m sure of it.”
“Well, if Darien is innocent…”
“Oh, but he is!” she cried. “He would never do something like that, never.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you,” I said, knowing that we wouldn’t be able to resolve this situation here in front of Mrs. Hodges’s gate. “We shall just wait and see what happens. I’m sure the true killer will be brought to justice in time.”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” She suddenly seemed to take note of our location as well, almost as though she had appeared at her mother’s house without really realizing it.
“But … but what are you doing here, Mrs. Ames? How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t, in fact. Actually, I came to see your mother.”
A frown flickered across her face. I thought she looked almost worried. It passed quickly, however. “Mother’s not feeling very well, I don’t think. She denies it, but she’s not a well woman.”
It crossed my mind, unkindly, that I would have thought, given Mrs. Hodges’s iron disposition, that she would outlive us all.
“I’m sorry to hear she’s unwell.”
“We’ve never got on especially well, but I do worry about her.” She smiled at me. “She’s quite well enough to see you, however.”
“I purchased some honey from her at the festival, but I didn’t have a chance to pick it up…” I left the rest of that sentence unfinished, lest the reminder provoke Marena to further tears. “Perhaps now isn’t the best of times, but you know how women in my condition often have their fancies.”
It was a flimsy excuse. After all, I could very well have sent Winnelda to collect it without coming myself. It didn’t seem, however, that Marena had noticed.
“You may have to go around to the kitchen door. She often pretends she’s not here when visitors knock on the front door.” I didn’t miss the little look of contempt she gave as she glanced back at the house.
“I’ll just go and speak with her then. Go back to the vicarage, dear, and do try not to worry so much. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“I hope you’re right, Mrs. Ames,” she said softly. She got on her bicycle and went off down the lane toward the village without a backward glance.
I looked back toward the house and was startled to see the face of Mrs. Hodges watching us through the curtains. Then the curtain dropped, and she was gone.
While I was standing, debating whether I should go to the front door and knock or go to the kitchen door as Marena had suggested, she opened the door.
“I thought I heard Marena causing a scene out here,” she said flatly. I marveled at her lack of compassion for her daughter. Whatever one thought of Marena’s romantic escapades, surely one must feel sorry that a young man she had once cared deeply for had died.
I fought down my irritation, however. As Mrs. Hodges would be, I was sure, the first to say, one caught more flies with honey than with vinegar.
“She’s quite upset,” I said. “She cared very much for Bertie Phipps.”
She let out a short breath through her nose, either impatience or disagreement, I wasn’t sure which. “She didn’t care for that boy as much as she pretends to now that he’s dead. What can I do for you, Mrs. Ames?”
“I was wondering if I might collect my jar of honey. I didn’t have the chance at the festival.”
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and I could tell that my excuse was not entirely satisfactory. Nevertheless, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
“Come this way,” she said. She led me around the side of the house, through a tidy kitchen garden. At the edge of the field of lavender and yarrow beyond the back gate I could see the stacks of her hives, waiting for their occupants to return. We went in through a door that led into a clean, sunny kitchen. I had imagined the interior of her house to be a bit grimmer than this, and I was a bit surprised at the homely warmth of it.
There were filmy white curtains on the windows, admitting the sunlight, and every surface had been scrubbed until it shone. The floors, too, practically gleamed. Beeswax, no doubt.
There was a teapot on the table with a milk pitcher and a small jar of honey.
It smelled pleasantly of herbs, and I looked up to see bunches of dried lavender, thyme, and rosemary and bundles of sage hanging from one of the ceiling’s wooden beams.
She went to a cupboard against one wall and pulled it open. “You’re in luck. I’ve only a few jars of the lavender left,” she said. She nodded at the jar on the table. “And that’s the last of the rosemary. Marena’s favorite, though it’s too strong a taste for most. I’ll be glad when the bees return. I’m hoping to have a larger colony this year than last.”
“I meant to collect it after the race,” I said. “But with everything that happened, it slipped my mind. It was all so unfortunate…”
“That boy getting himself killed, you mean? Yes, I suppose it was.”
There was something very unpleasant about Mrs. Hodges, but one couldn’t help but feel that there was also something clever about her. I decided that she would, perhaps, appreciate the most direct approach.
“Who do you think might have done it?”
She turned her hard gaze on me. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”
Another thought occurred to me, and, before I could think better of it, I asked the question out loud. “Why were you in the field near the Priory during the races?”
I expected, perhaps, a look of surprise, but, if anything, her expression became more calmly guarded. “Who says I was?”
“Someone mentioned it to me,” I said vaguely.
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly even as the corner of her mouth turned up in a grim smile. I recalled suddenly the illustration of a woodland witch in a storybook I’d read as a child.
“You’re a clever one, Mrs. Ames,” she said. “But I’m not the one you need to be questioning.”
“You were wearing a different dress after the races than before,” I said. Now that it was all out in the open, I might as well be direct.
She shrugged, unfazed by this piece of evidence. “I broke a jar of honey and walked home to change my dress. No crime in that, is there?”
“No, of course not.” Could the explanation really be so simple? I found it unsatisfactory somehow, though it made perfect sense. The property line between Bedford Priory and Thornecrest was nearly a direct route to this cottage.
“I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to harm him to keep him from Marena, anyway, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I didn’t bother to deny it, and she went on. “People must take the consequences of their actions. If Marena wanted him, I wasn’t going to stand in the way.”
“Lady Alma said Bertie mentioned he knew a secret about you.”
I had said it bluntly, to see if I could catch her off guard, but the only thing that crossed her face was a confused frown. “It must have been secret indeed, for I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“Are you sure?” Even as I asked the question, I felt somehow that she was telling the truth. She had been surprised, not afraid, at the suggestion. I had seen it clearly in her face.
“I’ve a better q
uestion for you,” she said. “One that’s been on my mind since that afternoon.”
My skin prickled a little, as though I were about to learn something very important. “Oh?”
She leaned a bit closer, her sharp dark eyes meeting mine. “What was that Imogen girl doing that day talking to Bertie Phipps in the field where he died?”
16
“YOU SAW IMOGEN Prescott talking to Bertie Phipps?” I asked, surprised by this latest bit of information.
She nodded. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. But after he turned up dead, I started to wonder what she was doing with him.”
“How did you know who she was?”
“It’s hard to keep things quiet in this village.”
That was true enough. But what connection was there between Imogen and Bertie? Thus far no one had given any indication that the two of them had known each other, Imogen least of all.
My mind immediately began sorting through the possible reasons for this deception. What was Imogen hiding? I knew Bertie had often gone to London. I supposed they had met there, though the nature of their connection was a bit harder to discern. A romantic liaison was perhaps the most obvious choice, but I had been so sure that Bertie genuinely cared for Marena. Could there be some other relationship between Bertie and Imogen?
“Were they arguing?” I asked, curious about the tenor of their interaction.
“Not that I could tell. But they had the look of two people that knew each other. They were comfortable together, if you take my meaning.”
“You didn’t much care for Bertie Phipps, did you?” I asked.
Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t care for Marena chasing after him. She’s not a good girl, and I knew what kind of trouble could come of it.”
If she had disapproved so heartily of wholesome Bertie, I shuddered to think what she would say when she realized Marena had taken up with Darien.
“Perhaps you’re too hard on her,” I suggested. “Marena’s a lovely girl.”
“She’s her father’s daughter,” Mrs. Hodges said darkly. “When she started asking about him, I knew there would be trouble.”
A Deception at Thornecrest Page 15
