I would need to give gossip in order to receive it.
While I debated what I could tell her without giving away too much of my private family affairs, I hoped that she would be more in the mood for talking than listening.
The door was opened by the maid, who led me to a comfortable parlor. The furniture was all hung with colorful knitted throws. There was a cheerful fire crackling in the grate, chasing away the afternoon coolness, and a bouquet of bright flowers sat on a table near the window.
I took a seat in one of a pair of emerald-green chairs, and a moment later Mrs. Cotton made her appearance.
There was something very fitting about her name, I had always thought. She was small and pale with a halo of fluffy white hair that reminded one of a ball of cotton. Her cheeks were pink, however, and her brown eyes were warm and cheerful. If one looked closely enough, one could also see the sparkle of mischief in them.
“Well, Mrs. Ames. Welcome,” she said as she came into the room. “I must say, I’m not entirely surprised to see you here.”
“Yes, I’ve been stopping by frequently as of late. I’m acquainted with Imogen Prescott.”
“That’s not what I mean, my dear.”
So I had been correct in my assumption that she knew I would be asking for information. I was glad that my own instincts had been correct. And perhaps it was better this way. After all, we understood each other.
“Would you like some tea, dear?” she asked as she took the seat across from me. A white cat, who had apparently been lurking beneath the chair, jumped immediately onto her lap, and she began to stroke it gently.
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
“I thought you might think so. I’ve told Sarah to put the kettle on.”
She seemed to be in the habit of anticipating my wishes, and so I knew I would have to tread carefully. Despite her rather innocuous appearance, I knew there was a sharp brain behind those kind smiles.
“I suppose you’ve come to talk about the murders,” she said, not bothering with any of the normal social pleasantries.
I smiled. “I did think perhaps you might have heard something about it.”
“I’ve heard your husband’s brother is suspected of Bertie’s death.”
One could not accuse Mrs. Cotton of being indirect. I suspected this was one of her means of gathering information. People often gave away more than they meant to when they were caught off guard. Fortunately, I had been in such situations too often to easily lose my poise.
“It’s all a misunderstanding,” I said. “The police have let him go now. He’ll be proven innocent in no time, I’m sure.”
She offered a skeptical yet sympathetic smile. “Perhaps. One never knows, though, does one? After all, you know very little of the boy’s upbringing. Your husband had every advantage and turned out rather wild. One wonders what his brother might be capable of.”
There was nothing malicious in the comment. She wasn’t saying anything that people hadn’t said for years. Indeed, it wasn’t anything that wasn’t true. Milo had always had the best of everything, and he had still run riot for much of his life. Perhaps it was the advantages that had been part of the problem.
However, I had not come here to discuss my husband’s past escapades. I really wanted to know what Mrs. Cotton knew about other potential suspects. If anyone knew of hidden motives and secret agendas, it was sure to be she.
“Darien was in prison when Marena was killed, and it stands to reason that both murders were committed by the same person. If it wasn’t Darien, then who do you think it might have been?”
“The weather’s been lovely for this time of year, don’t you think?” she asked abruptly.
This change of subject surprised me momentarily, but then Sarah, the maid, came in with the tea tray, and I understood that Mrs. Cotton had heard her approaching. It seemed the lady did not like to share her gossip with the domestic staff.
“Yes, I agree. I’ve been pleasantly surprised.”
“Have you chosen a name for the baby?” she asked, changing the subject again when we had settled down with our tea. The china was floral-printed Wedgwood.
It did cross my mind momentarily that the tea might not be safe to drink, but Mrs. Cotton had had no involvement with the murders. What was more, she drank heartily from her cup and suffered no ill effects. I supposed it was safe to drink from mine, which had been poured directly from the same pot.
I took a sip. “Not yet, no. We’ve several ideas but haven’t settled on anything.”
“Flower names are always lovely for girls.”
“Yes. There are a great many nice ones.”
“I myself have always been fond of the name Octavius for a boy. It’s a very strong name.”
“It is indeed.”
The maid left and closed the door, and Mrs. Cotton set her cup in its saucer with a delicate clink.
“Lady Alma had a temper in her younger days,” she said without preamble. “It comes from being raised with all those brothers, I suppose, but she wasn’t above coming to blows with those she disagreed with.”
I wasn’t entirely surprised by this revelation. Lady Alma had something of a domineering personality, and I could picture her reinforcing it with fisticuffs in her youth.
“Yes,” Mrs. Cotton went on, “she once beat a stable boy for causing harm to one of her horses. Went at him with her crop, I believe. In the end, she had to pay for doctor’s bills and a bit extra to hush things up. You can’t really keep things quiet, of course. The story followed her here. But she’s been the model of propriety ever since she came to Allingcross. Breeding her horses and founding the Springtide Festival. It seems one can outgrow such violent behaviors in time. Don’t you think?” She looked at me over her teacup.
I knew what she was insinuating, that Lady Alma’s temper might have got the better of her again with Bertie. She had been so fond of Bertie, though. Was there anything that might have induced her rage to that extent?
A scenario occurred to me. Perhaps Bertie had been working with Medusa, and perhaps he, and not the killer, had been responsible for the cut on her leg. Lady Alma might have discovered it and flown into a rage and then been forced to try to cover what she had done.
I supposed it was possible. Anything was possible, really.
“I know she’s very fond of her new horse, Medusa. If Bertie had injured her in some way…” I said, thinking aloud.
“Ah, yes. Her horse. I heard she’s been boasting it was sired by a famous racehorse.”
I nodded.
“It makes one wonder why she keeps everyone so far from the horse.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly alert.
She adjusted her shawl. “I’ve just heard talk that she’s the only one allowed to work with it. Almost as though she doesn’t want anyone to get a good look at it?”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“I don’t know. That’s the question, I suppose.”
“Even supposing she did kill Bertie for some reason, it wouldn’t account for Marena’s murder.”
Mrs. Cotton nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that is a bit tricky.”
I had never seen any particular interactions between Lady Alma and Marena. They had been casual friends at best. I could think of no reason why she would have resorted to murder. Unless perhaps Marena had had suspicions about Bertie’s death.
She had, after all, been nearby around the time of his murder. Perhaps she had seen something and had confronted Lady Alma. It was a stretch, but it was something to consider.
“What about Marena’s mother?” I asked.
Mrs. Cotton’s face darkened. “Jane Hodges has always been a dour, unpleasant woman. Even before her husband was sent away.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“He died in prison, you know. He killed a man in a pub brawl. Well, rather, he got in an altercation and waited for the man outside. Beat him to death.”
“No,” I
said. “I didn’t know.”
“Few people do, I suppose. It happened in London, and when Jane Hodges returned to Allingcross, she never mentioned it again. She changed her name back to her maiden name, and Marena’s with it, but no one asked any questions. Assumed he had run off with a nicer girl, perhaps. I heard of it in a roundabout way some years after, but I kept it to myself, for Marena’s sake.”
“Marena didn’t know either?”
She shook her head. “She was a wee thing at the time. I used to call her Jane’s dumbledor, a little bumblebee always buzzing about. She looked just like her father, though. He was a handsome man.”
So that explained Mrs. Hodges’s bitterness toward her daughter. She had always reminded her of the poor choices she, a woman so unforgiving of others, had made. And perhaps Marena had also reminded her of what she had lost. Just the way Milo’s father had been reminded of his wife whenever he looked at his son.
“I always wondered about the accident,” Mrs. Cotton said, drawing me back to the present.
I frowned, confused. “What accident?”
“The accident that killed Sara Busby.”
I was even more confused now. “What has that to do with Lady Alma?”
“Nothing. My mind just wandered, I suppose.” She shook her head, tutting gently. “That accident was a very bad business. Tragic.”
I wondered if Mrs. Cotton was, perhaps, losing a bit of her edge. One didn’t like to judge an elderly lady by her appearance—indeed, it was often fatal to do so—but her mind did seem to wander.
“Yes, very sad,” I agreed. “I didn’t know the Busbys at the time, of course, but I imagine it was heartbreaking for them.”
“They both adored Sara,” she said. “Their pride and joy, she was. I worried for a while that they would never overcome it. The vicar, perhaps. He’s always been strong of faith. But Mrs. Busby loved that girl, and I’ve always thought…” She paused.
“Yes?” I felt suddenly as though I was going to learn something important and found myself leaning forward slightly in my chair. The baby registered its disapproval of my change of position with a sharp kick beneath my ribs, and I sat back.
“I shouldn’t say such things, I suppose…” Mrs. Cotton said.
I had found that, with village gossips, these half-hearted protests were usually used to preface interesting but totally unfounded speculations. This case was no different.
“There was something more to that accident than met the eye.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know. In fact, I know almost nothing about what happened. That’s what was curious,” she said. “There was so little said about it. Usually there is talk, but there was nothing. Mrs. Busby was driving and went off the road. Sara was killed and Mrs. Busby paralyzed. And that was it.”
“Perhaps there was nothing more to be said. It might have been as straightforward as that.”
“Perhaps,” she said, but the word was heavy with skepticism.
I understood what she was telling me. “You think something else happened, something that only Mrs. Busby and Marena lived to tell about.”
“I don’t know. I just find it curious.” She took a sip of her tea.
I considered the possibility. What sort of secret might have been worth keeping? Sara Busby was dead; was there anything greater than that they might have had to hide? It just didn’t seem to make sense.
“Have you been to the vicarage?” I asked, taking up her strategy of shifting the topic to see what might come of it.
She pulled her shawl a little more tightly around her. “No, not yet. I don’t get around as easily as I used to.”
“I’m very sorry for the Busbys. Marena had been almost like a second daughter to them, and I know this loss has hit them very hard.”
“Some people, it seems, attract tragedy to them.”
I looked at her. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “Some people have a great many sad things happen to them, unexplained things. Some may think it fate, some the will of God, and some may think that there’s no smoke without a fire.”
I took my leave not much later. As I left the little cottage, I recanted my uncharitable thoughts about Mrs. Cotton’s age; she was sharper than I had given her credit for being. Sharper, perhaps, than I was.
23
I RETURNED HOME. Tired but too on edge to rest, I went into the nursery. I had found myself coming to this room more and more often now that the baby was soon to arrive. I liked to stand in the warm, sunny space and think about what it would be like when its tiny resident had made his appearance.
The room had been Milo’s nursery as a child. It was a large room with windows that looked out over the eastern side of the property where a small lake in the distance glinted in the afternoon sunlight. Milo had sailed his toy boats on that lake as a child.
The room had been decorated in white, with accents in shades of yellow and pale blue. I’d had someone in to paper and paint, and the cradle, curtains, and most linens were new. I liked the idea of our child having a fresh start in life. There were several items, however, that remained from Milo’s tenure here: the rocking horse in one corner, a shelf of well-read books of adventure stories, a stack of colorful blocks.
Milo’s mother had chosen those things for him. She had died shortly after giving birth, and it was sad to think that she had never had the chance to hold her child in her arms here. I had often wondered how Milo’s life—his very personality—might have been different had he not been deprived of a mother. Of course, the what-ifs would do no good. Milo would not have been the same person if his family history had been altered. Nevertheless, I wished he could have known her, that I could have known her. I wished she could have met our child.
I didn’t hear him come in, but somehow I knew when he was standing at the doorway. I didn’t turn from where I was folding a blanket to place in the linen cupboard.
“That was a long ride,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose it was.”
Silence fell between us as he came into the room. I put the blanket into the cupboard and turned to face him.
Milo was looking around the room. “I haven’t been here in more than twenty years.”
“There are a lot of memories, I suppose.”
He nodded. “Madame Nanette used to read to me on that window seat,” he said, indicating the cushion set into the window. “I always liked it best in winter, with a fire crackling in the grate. When it was cold, I would draw little shapes in the frost on the glass to match the stories she was reading.”
I smiled. It was such a whimsical recollection. It was hard for me to imagine sometimes, that Milo had once been a cheerful, boisterous boy. He was always so very poised, so completely in command of himself. I had never seen any hint of vulnerability in him, any trace that anything that happened made much difference to him one way or the other.
Oh, he was happy we had a baby on the way. He was excited that he was going to be a father. Yet, even in that, there was something very restrained.
“You have good memories of Madame Nanette.”
“Yes. It wasn’t a bad childhood, all told.”
We were both silent for a moment, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I was glad that we could be civil toward each other, glad that he had sought me out rather than avoiding me.
It was then I noticed the trunk tucked away in the corner, the one Winnelda had brought down from the attic. It was dotted with cobwebs, though she had made a good show of trying to clean it off.
“Do you know what’s in this trunk?” I asked Milo as I made my way toward it.
He glanced at it. “I haven’t any idea. Where did you find it?”
“It was in the attic near some of the old nursery furniture.”
He shrugged. “I haven’t been up there in years.”
My curiosity increased.
I moved to the trunk and unfastened the clasps. Raising the lid, I found several
items wrapped in cloth. I removed the first. It was a photograph in a silver frame. The subject was a beautiful woman. Her shiny dark hair was piled high on her head in the Edwardian style, and she was wearing a high-necked lace collar with a cameo attached. She had blue eyes, a fact that was clear even in the faded sepia coloring of the photograph. There was something elegant about her, and I knew at once that this must be Milo’s mother.
I had never seen her photograph before now. There was a very good painting of her in the family portrait gallery, but Milo had mentioned to me once that his father had put away almost every reminder of the wife he had lost.
I had seen photographs of Milo’s father, for the elder Mr. Ames had often been in the society columns, though not for the same scandalous reasons as Milo. He had been a striking man with handsome, symmetrical features he had passed on to both his sons. And he’d had a dimple in one cheek, like Darien. I had always assumed that Milo took after his father, but seeing a picture of his mother made me realize how much he looked like her as well.
It occurred to me that Milo may never have seen a photograph of his mother either.
“I … I think this is your mother,” I said, handing it to him.
He took the photograph and examined it. I watched his face, but whatever he was feeling he didn’t reveal.
“I never understood my father,” he said at last. “We never saw eye to eye about anything. But now, with you facing what killed my mother, I understand him a bit better. I thought about it as I rode today: they were in the same position in which we are now, anticipating a child and their future happiness. It must have been a great shock to him when she died.”
“Yes,” I agreed softly.
His eyes came up to meet mine. “And it occurred to me that I could lose you as he lost her.”
My heart clenched at these words. Though his tone was perfectly composed, some unguarded emotion had flashed momentarily across his eyes, and I felt a surge of love for him. He didn’t often express himself in sentimental terms, but there were moments like these when I knew with absolute certainty how much he cared for me.
A Deception at Thornecrest Page 21
