I watched her carefully to see what her reaction would be.
To my surprise she nodded, her eyes downcast. “I was.”
“Did you know him?”
“Yes.”
I tried not to appear too encouraged by this admission. After all, I didn’t know what it meant. I only knew that there was another tie to Bertie Phipps, another line of inquiry that might keep Darien out of prison.
“How?”
She didn’t answer at first. When she did, her answer didn’t entirely make sense. “I … I’m not a typist,” she said.
I waited.
She let out a little breath and then spoke the words quickly. “I’m a barmaid at a tavern not far from Alexandra Park Racecourse. Bertie used to come in there after he’d gone to the races. We became friends.”
They’d become friends, had they? What sort of friends? I wondered.
As if I’d asked the question aloud, Imogen said quickly. “Just friends. That’s all. I swear. Bertie loved Marena.”
“Then why didn’t you tell anyone that you knew him?”
She shrugged. “At first it was because I didn’t want anyone to know how we’d met. I didn’t want anyone to know I was a barmaid instead of a more respectable occupation. I was afraid it would get back to Darien.”
“Do you honestly believe that sort of thing would make a difference to Darien?”
“Not now. But when we met, I did. He was so handsome and elegant. And so I lied to him about my job. It all seems so silly now.”
Could it be true, I wondered, that something so trivial was the reason behind Imogen’s secrecy? I supposed it might be the case. After all, if she had thought Darien came from a wealthy family, they weren’t likely to have welcomed a barmaid into their bosom. A typist, on the other hand, was a position that spoke of industry and respectability.
There was just enough plausibility to her story to make me believe that she might be telling the truth.
I recalled how Mabel, the fortune-teller at the festival, had said Imogen had hurried from her tent, upset at the mention of the past impacting her future.
“What were you doing talking to Bertie in the field?”
“I saw him walking away from the festival, and I caught up with him. I just wanted to make sure that he hadn’t told anyone. It was a friendly conversation. We talked for just a moment or two, and then I left.”
“So you didn’t see anyone else, aside from Darien?”
She shook her head. “I spotted Darien walking across the field just as I neared the festival again.”
“And you weren’t there when Marena died,” I said, though I’d already had Lady Alma’s account of it.
“No. I understand it happened shortly after I left. What a dreadful thing.”
“She was a lovely girl,” I said, watching her face closely.
Imogen stopped walking and turned to me. “I’m very sorry that she’s dead. I would never have wished for anything like that to happen to her.”
She sounded sincere. I was beginning to wonder, however, if she was a better actress than I had given her credit for being. Darien certainly seemed to believe that she wasn’t as innocent as she appeared. Of course, I hesitated to take Darien’s word on anything where women were concerned.
“Who do you think might have done it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Did you know that Darien has been released from prison?”
Her eyes widened. “No. He … he has?”
“The police believe, given Marena’s death, that he is not the murderer of Bertie Phipps.”
I expected her to look happy at the news, but it seemed that her expression clouded before she did her best to appear cheerful. “Well, I suppose I’m happy for him. I never did believe he killed Bertie.”
“The question still remains,” I replied. “Who did?”
* * *
IMOGEN WENT BACK into Mrs. Cotton’s house, and I turned toward the car. But then a thought occurred to me.
“Just one more moment, Markham,” I called to him before turning back toward the apothecary shop next door to the boardinghouse.
I stepped inside. The interior was dim and cool compared to the sunny warmth of the morning outside. I had always liked the shop, with its mahogany shelves stacked with neat rows of jars and colorful bottles, the scent of herbs and tinctures in the air.
The apothecary, Mr. Peters, was standing behind the counter, reading over some notes in front of him, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked up when I entered and offered me a welcoming smile.
“Ah, Mrs. Ames. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr. Peters.”
“How are you feeling?” Mr. Peters had supplied me with several remedies over the years. He was a kind, cheerful fellow, and clever as well. Which meant I was going to have to be very careful.
“I’m feeling quite well, thank you,” I said with a smile. “The doctor says all is as it should be.”
“I’m glad to hear it. What can I do for you today?”
“I wonder, do you have any raspberry leaf tea?”
The apothecary nodded. “Yes, of course. It’s wonderful for women in your condition. Especially as the time may be approaching. Let me see…”
As I had hoped, he stepped away from the counter, moving toward the corner of the room, his back to me.
“And a jar of witch hazel,” I added. I knew where it was kept, and it would give me an additional moment or two to do what I had come to do.
Quickly, I stepped behind the counter and pulled out the poison register.
I knew where it was, for I had been here once on the occasion that someone was purchasing some toxic material. They had been required to write both their name and the poison in the book, a useful measure when one was granted possession of a deadly substance.
I looked up. Mr. Peters was still focused on the tea, scooping it out of its jar into a little tin for me to take with me.
I opened the book, flipping to the most recent page, and quickly scanned the list of names. Many of them were familiar to me, local farmers who could use the stuff to keep rodents away from their orchards and hops.
I stopped when I caught sight of a listing from three weeks ago.
Cyanide salts.
I looked at the name beside it. The signature was written in an elegant, tidy hand.
Elaine Busby.
20
I PUT THE register back and composed myself as Mr. Peters brought back my tea and witch hazel, though my mind was very much preoccupied for the rest of the transaction.
I supposed there were any number of reasons why Elaine Busby might have bought cyanide salts. But none of them seemed as relevant at the moment as the possibility she had used them to poison Marena’s tea.
Of course, she was bound to know that the police would check the poison register. Surely she wouldn’t be so naïve?
What was more, I found it difficult to believe she could have come here alone. After all, it was not easy for her to get around in her chair.
Nothing seemed to make sense, and the more I investigated, the more complex things seemed to have become. It was very frustrating.
I was tired when I returned to the house. I intended to have some tea and sit near a fire in the drawing room while I finished sewing the hem on a blanket for the baby and thought over all that had happened.
I would need to see Inspector Wilson at some point, of course. Though I was certain the poison register would be the first place he would look after a death of this kind, I wanted to be sure that he had seen Mrs. Busby’s name there.
I had just settled myself into the chair and picked up my sewing when Milo came into the room. I didn’t know he was back from London, so I was a bit surprised to see him standing in the doorway.
“What is Darien doing in this house?” he asked.
So that was it. He was wearing riding clothes, though the spo
tless nature of his boots told me he hadn’t been out yet. He must have been waiting for me.
“Hello, Milo,” I said pointedly. “How was your trip to London?”
He didn’t reply, waiting, I supposed, for an answer to his question.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s been another murder,” I said.
If this surprised him, he didn’t show it. Indeed, he seemed very uninterested in this latest bit of village news.
“That doesn’t explain what he’s doing here.”
I could see he was not in a pleasant mood, but I was tired and on edge myself. If he wanted a fight, I was prepared to give him one. I set my sewing aside. “Inspector Wilson has released him into our charge.”
“Why the devil should he do that?”
“He couldn’t have committed the second murder, so Inspector Wilson has begun to believe he didn’t kill Bertie, as it seems likely one killer committed both murders. Aren’t you interested, by the way, in who else has died?”
“I know who else has died,” he replied. I ought to have known he had already heard the news; there was little that happened in the vicinity of Thornecrest that Milo didn’t know about almost immediately.
“I should think you’d be glad to learn your brother is no longer the primary suspect.”
“Just because he didn’t kill Marena doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Bertie.”
I sighed. “Milo, do try to be reasonable.”
“I think it’s perfectly reasonable not to want an accused killer in my house.”
My brows rose. “Your house, is it?”
We were perilously close to a blazing row. My energy was low, but I could feel my ire rising.
“You know very well what I mean,” he answered evenly.
“It’s not for long,” I said, matching my tone to his. “Besides, I told him we’d discuss it when you got back from London. If you hadn’t come charging in here so rudely, I might have had a chance to mention that.”
“I’m back from London,” he said. “So let’s discuss it.”
I studied him. “Do you know something about Darien that you haven’t told me?”
“No.”
“Then why have you set your mind against him?”
“I find it difficult to believe he hasn’t given you reason enough to distrust him in the time you’ve known him.”
I was growing exasperated with his whole attitude.
“Milo, I don’t see why you’re so angry.”
“Don’t you?” he replied. Despite his calm tone, his eyes were that bright shade of blue I recognized from the one or two occasions when he had allowed me to see how furious he was. “You’re putting our child in danger.”
“I’m doing no such thing!” I resented the implication. Nothing was more important to me than the safety of our child, and the accusation made me angry.
“What do you call it? Inviting a murder suspect into our house. And what’s more, going around asking questions when someone has been killed.”
I hadn’t expected him to change topics this way, to shift some sort of blame onto me, and I wasn’t prepared for it.
For just a moment I considered the accusation. It was true that our investigations had placed me in danger before, but this time was different. I was being careful. I wasn’t acting recklessly or going anywhere alone with potential suspects. I was only doing what would be natural for me to do under the circumstances: talking to those involved, offering my sympathies as a friend.
It wasn’t fair of him to characterize it as a risk.
I was about to make an angry retort when I thought better of it. I was suddenly too tired to go on arguing. If he wanted Darien out of the house, he would have to get rid of him himself.
“I can look after myself and the baby,” I said. “As for Darien, do what you like. It’s your house, after all.”
We looked at each other for a moment.
“I’m going for a ride,” Milo said.
“Very well.”
He turned and left then without a backward glance. And good riddance to him.
Xerxes must have been saddled and waiting, for a moment later I saw through the window as they galloped off across the lawn. Xerxes was already prancing and pulling on the bit. Perhaps the exertion required to handle him would do something to improve Milo’s temper.
I drew in a deep breath, calming myself. It would do no good for me to get upset. We would just have to discuss the matter again when both of us were in a better frame of mind.
There was a chattering as Emile, our pet monkey, made his appearance in the drawing room. I had grown very much attached to him since he had come to us and often talked to him as I would a child, though I had to do it in French, as it was his native language, so to speak. He answered me, too, with little chirps and enthusiastic clapping of his paws.
“Hello, Emile,” I said. I was glad to see him; I could do with a bit of cheering.
He came over to my chair and picked something up off the ground. “What have you in your hand, dearest?”
He climbed up to the arm of my chair and held out a thimble I had dropped when I had set my sewing aside.
“How clever you are, Emile. Thank you.”
He chattered happily, pleased with himself. He had a habit of returning lost items to their owners, which had proven useful on more than one occasion.
For the most part now, however, he lived a life of luxury and ease. Most of the time he was at his leisure to roam about, though Winnelda was tasked with keeping an eye on him and making sure that he didn’t get into too much trouble. All of the more valuable fragile items in the house had been moved behind closed doors.
Milo and I had discussed what would happen once the baby was born. I was a bit nervous as to how Emile would react to an infant. There was no question of our giving him away, not when he had become so dear to us, but I thought that a period of separation would be the best thing. Thornecrest was certainly large enough to keep them apart from each other, or, if need be, he could be moved to our flat in London until the baby was no longer an infant.
“A sprawling country house, a beautiful wife, exotic pets, what more could one ask for? My brother is a lucky man.”
I looked up as Darien came into the drawing room. I couldn’t tell, either from his tone or his expression, how I was meant to interpret this observation. I wondered, too, if he had overheard any part of my conversation with Milo.
I decided to proceed as if nothing had happened. I reached over to a little cup of nuts I kept for Emile and held one out for Darien. “You can feed him if you like. He’ll be your friend forever afterward.”
Darien paused and then came forward and took the peanut, holding it out in Emile’s direction.
“Here you are, little fellow.”
Emile tipped his head to one side and studied Darien.
“Come on then,” he said.
“We got Emile in Paris,” I told him. “He doesn’t speak English.”
An expression I couldn’t quite read flickered across Darien’s face.
“A pity, then, for I don’t speak French.” He popped the peanut into his mouth.
I realized again that gap that existed between the two men. Darien might be Milo’s brother by blood, but there was a world of difference between them. Milo’s life had been a series of advantages afforded by money, a family name, and an abundance of good fortune.
Things had obviously not been so easy for Darien, and a part of me understood why he was resentful of his brother. Then again, it had not been Milo’s fault that their father had abandoned Darien and his mother. There was only so much he could do to remedy it.
I held another peanut out to Emile, and he scampered over to collect it, looking meaningfully at Darien as he ate it.
“Where is my brother this fine morning?” he asked, settling himself into a chair.
“He just went out riding.”
“A pleasant pastime.”
“Yes, he just r
eturned from doing business in London. He enjoys riding to clear his thoughts, I believe.”
“Ah, yes. Always busy, isn’t he?”
There it was again, that tone that indicated there was something more beneath the words. I was in no mood to play games with him. If there was something on his mind, he had better come out with it.
“Is there something I can do for you, Darien?” I asked.
He looked at me. “It’s an interesting question.”
I waited for him to say more.
“I had hoped to have an ally in you, but it seems Milo isn’t the sort to be easily persuaded.”
So he had overheard our conversation after all.
“He wants to protect the things that matter to him,” I replied. I was angry with Milo, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t come to his defense.
“Yes, I can see that. I suppose I’ve gone about things the wrong way,” he said lightly, though I could sense a bit of uncertainty beneath the question. Was he asking me for advice?
“If you were hoping to win your newfound brother’s approval, seducing a young woman under false pretenses and getting yourself caught up in a murder investigation wasn’t precisely the way to go about it.”
“I hadn’t thought about approval initially,” he admitted. “I’ve always done just exactly as I please.”
Though it was a ridiculous remark, I couldn’t hold back a smile. “You’re very much alike in that respect.”
“I don’t imagine it’s easy for either of us to make concessions.”
“No,” I agreed. I didn’t want to discourage Darien, but I found it difficult to imagine that Milo was going to make any concessions at all.
“I always wanted a brother,” he said. “When I was growing up, I mean. I asked my mother often if I might have a sibling—before I knew where siblings came from, of course. When I learned the particulars, I began to understand why she always looked so sad when I asked her. She never found anyone else after my father left.”
“What was your mother like?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“She was lovely,” he said. “The kindest woman you’d ever meet. I’m afraid I was something of a disappointment to her.” He said this with a self-mocking smile, but it was there again, that flicker of vulnerability that made its way through the cracks in his countenance. His veneer was not yet quite as hardened as Milo’s.
A Deception at Thornecrest Page 19
