“What of this Lady Alma you mentioned?” Inspector Jones asked.
I told him of Lady Alma and the provenance of Bedford Priory.
“And she is on your list of suspects.”
“She has a temper and cares for nothing but her horses. Medusa, the pride of her stables, was injured, and I did wonder if Bertie might have had a hand in it. She may have killed him in anger.”
“And why might she have wanted to kill Miss Hodges?”
“Marena was in the field the day that Bertie died. She might have seen something.”
“Wouldn’t she have gone directly to the police?”
I considered this. Marena had cared for Bertie a great deal, but I knew there had always been a bit of the mercenary in her. Was it possible she might have tried to blackmail Lady Alma?
“I … don’t know,” I said at last. “I would think so, but there is always the possibility that she might have been uncertain or only suspected it. Perhaps she even mentioned as much to Lady Alma, hoping to be proven wrong. And then Lady Alma felt that she had to be disposed of.”
It felt wrong, somehow, discussing all these people I had known and liked for years as potential suspects. It was one thing to involve myself in murders where the majority of the suspects were strangers or distant acquaintances; it was quite another to have to suspect the people who I greeted in the streets and sat next to in a pew at church. I didn’t want to believe that any of them was capable of something like this.
And so I seized upon the one person who I would not mind terribly being the culprit. “There’s Marena’s mother, of course.”
Inspector Jones looked vaguely intrigued. “You think she might have killed her daughter?”
“There was something … off in their relationship,” I said. “I could never quite put my finger on why it was they didn’t care for each other, but they certainly didn’t. Not in the way mothers and daughters usually do.”
“But why might she have killed Bertie Phipps?” he asked.
“Bertie apparently told Lady Alma that he knew something about Mrs. Hodges, a secret he seemed troubled about. She might have killed him to silence him.”
“What sort of secret?”
I sighed. “As to that, I don’t know.”
“And does that conclude your list of suspects?”
“There’s also Imogen Prescott,” I said. “She’s in love with Darien, so that would account for her killing Marena, her rival. But she also knew Bertie from London and wanted to hide the fact that her past wasn’t exactly what she claimed it was.”
Milo didn’t know this bit either, so I related my conversation with Imogen to him. It would have been so much easier if he had been my partner in all of this from the beginning, rather than stubbornly clinging to the possibility that Darien was the culprit.
It seemed that even now he had not completely dismissed the idea, however, for he added, “And there’s always the possibility that Darien might have done it.” He had been so nice and quiet for most of the conversation; I wished he would have stayed that way.
Inspector Jones turned to him. “You don’t discount the possibility that he might be involved?”
“Not at all,” Milo said. “In fact, I haven’t trusted him from the beginning.”
“He isn’t exactly trustworthy, perhaps,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean that he’s a killer.”
“No,” Inspector Jones agreed. “After all, a great many men of bad reputation have been cleared of murder in our time.”
Milo’s eyes glinted at the reminder, but he surprised me by saying nothing.
“What, then, is your conclusion, Inspector?” I asked. “Has anything I’ve told you struck a chord? I feel that perhaps I’m too close to things, that perhaps I’m not seeing the big picture as I ought to.”
He took a moment to consider. “It seems important to discover how the poison was administered and what type of poison it was,” he said at last. “If it was the cyanide salts you discovered Mrs. Busby purchased, you may have an added reason for suspicion. And it occurs to me that you may want to speak to the mother.”
“Mrs. Hodges?”
“Yes. I think she may know more than she lets on about who might have wanted to kill her daughter.”
“What if she did it?” I asked.
He gave me the barest hint of a smile. “Then that is likely to reveal itself as well. If she did kill Marena, why would she have killed Bertie Phipps? Start at the end and work back to the beginning. It may give you fresh ideas.”
He glanced then at his wristwatch. “This has all been very interesting, but I’m afraid I must catch my train.”
“Of course,” I said, rising from my seat. He and Milo followed suit.
“Do feel free to ring me again if you need to discuss anything else. And I should like very much to hear how things turn out.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“It’s been very nice to see you,” he said. “I wish you both much happiness on the arrival of the baby.”
“Thank you,” Milo and I said.
Inspector Jones had just reached the door when one more thought occurred to me. “Inspector?”
He turned.
“Milo and I are having difficulties selecting potential names for the baby. It seems strange to me that I’ve never asked. What’s your given name?”
“Sebastian,” he said.
I never would have guessed it. I would have pictured him as more of a John or a William, something as straightforward and unobtrusive as he was. Now that he said it, however, I could see that the more ostentatious name suited him.
“It’s a very nice name,” I said.
He gave a wry smile. “My mother was quite a fan of Shakespeare. But I got the best of it. My brothers are called Romeo and Othello.”
25
I BREAKFASTED ALONE the next morning, as Milo and Darien were both still abed. I was glad, for I didn’t particularly want to deal with either of them this morning, let alone the two in combination.
I wasn’t feeling particularly well. I had been uncomfortable for most of the night and slept fitfully. My back ached, and I felt vaguely nauseated, a sensation that did not entirely diminish even after I forced myself to eat and drink some tea.
Despite my discomfort, I hadn’t given up on working to solve the murders. Inspector Jones had given me an idea. I needed to speak to Mrs. Hodges. I felt certain that she would be able to provide insight into Marena’s death. Perhaps if I looked at it from that perspective, I might be able to find out why she and Bertie had died.
It would not be unusual for me to call and pay my respects. After all, Milo and I were well known in the community. Under any other circumstances, I certainly would have paid the grieving mother a call. Of course, I might have waited until a bit later to do such a thing, were a murderer not on the loose. As things stood, it would be better to visit now, when there might be some useful bit of information to be gleaned.
I chose a gown of dark navy and put a flowing scarf over it. I looked in the mirror and thought that my stomach was reasonably concealed. Mrs. Hodges was one of that class of women who was likely to think I should be sequestered in my house until the baby was born, so I wanted to offend as little as possible. I wouldn’t further violate her sense of propriety by walking there, so I asked Markham to bring the car around.
Luckily, Milo still hadn’t stirred, and Winnelda was off on some errand, so I was left to my own devices. If my departure was observed, it was too late for anyone to object. Not that it would have mattered. I was on a mission now, and I didn’t intend to be foiled.
Though a death in the village would often bring out a flurry of activity from the local women, both sympathetic and morbidly curious, the Hodges house appeared quiet when Markham pulled up in front of the white fence. There was no group of mourners as there had been at the vicarage.
I felt a little pang of pity for the woman. Though she was unpleasant, it didn’t seem right that she should
have to grieve alone.
Markham came around to open the door for me, and I went to the front door of the cottage.
The maid opened it. She was a young, dour-faced girl, and I forced away the uncharitable thought that she must be what Mrs. Hodges had looked like in her youth. I was led to a dim, sparse parlor and took a seat in a chair by the fire, which had burned down to embers. In contrast to the cheerful kitchen I had visited two days before, this room was dark and chill, and I thought how little comfort was to be derived from it. I hoped that Mrs. Hodges’s own room was more pleasant. I hoped, at least, it was warm.
I sat for a few moments, the only sound the ticking of a great grandfather clock at one end of the room. Then I heard the sound of heavy footsteps, and a moment later Mrs. Hodges came into the room. She was dressed in unrelieved black, her mourning clothes indicative of Edwardian style, with long skirts and a high-necked blouse. I was almost a bit surprised that she didn’t have a veil.
I rose from my seat. “Hello, Mrs. Hodges,” I said. “I’ve come to offer my condolences.”
She nodded. “Thank you.” Her tone was flat, just as it had always been, and there was not a hint of any emotion in her expression as she spoke. I wondered if she was dazed with the grief of losing Marena. Or perhaps she wasn’t feeling much at all.
She took the seat across from me, and I sat again. There was a quiet moment as she arranged the folds of her black shawl across her shoulders. I studied her face. It was drawn and pale, and it seemed as though she had aged a bit since I had seen her last. If her grief was deep, however, she was keeping it hidden. Her eyes were dry, and her thin lips were pressed together in an expression of grim stoicism.
“Marena was such a lovely girl,” I said. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
She said nothing.
“I do hope you’ll let us know if there’s anything we can do.”
She looked up at me, and I saw that her eyes were a golden brown, a warmer color than I had expected them to be in the dim light of the parlor, almost like the honey she was so fond of. They were very like Marena’s eyes had been, and I felt a moment of sadness as I realized how difficult it must be to lose her only child.
Almost unconsciously, my hand went to my stomach. I had not even seen this child yet, and I loved it fiercely. I could not imagine what it must be like to lose a child you had lived with and cared for for more than twenty years. The very thought made me feel a bit ill, and I forced my mind away from that aspect of things.
The maid came in with tea, and we were quiet as she settled things between us. Then Mrs. Hodges poured.
“How do you take your tea, Mrs. Ames?”
“No tea for me, thank you,” I said. “I’ve just had breakfast.”
To be honest, I wasn’t certain I trusted her to serve me tea, not when the matter of Marena’s poisoning was still unsolved. What was more, I still didn’t feel well and didn’t particularly relish the thought of another cup of tea at the moment.
She poured herself a cup, but it halted on the way to her lips for a moment, as though she was considering something. Some cynical part of me wondered if she was trying to formulate what story she wanted to tell about Marena, how much she could speak of her loss without revealing anything too incriminating.
Did I really think that she might be responsible for the murder of her own daughter? It seemed to me to be very unlikely. However much she might have disapproved of Marena, I didn’t think her strident sense of morality would allow her to commit a murder to remedy it. Indeed, I didn’t see why she would want to.
Though she had never seemed a warm woman, I had always thought she must be fond of her daughter in her own way. Marena had stayed at the vicarage on and off over the past several years to help Mrs. Busby, but she and her mother had still spent a good deal of time together. As far as I could tell, there had never seemed to be more than the usual amount of animosity between them, despite the oddness of their relationship.
I was no stranger to difficult mother-daughter relationships, after all. My own bond with my mother was very often strained, and there were few subjects on which we saw eye to eye.
“I am still adjusting myself to the idea that she’s gone,” she said at last. “I keep thinking she might come knocking at my door.”
I nodded. “I can understand that.”
“There are a great many things to think about, things one never considers before something like this happens. I have quite a bit of savings. It was all to have gone to Marena, but now…” She shrugged. “I don’t suppose it will do much good. I’ll give it to a charity. I’ve no doubt that they’ll make better use of it than she might have.”
There was a certain bitterness to her words, but there was sorrow in them, too. Despite the disagreements she had had with her daughter, she was still mourning her loss. I realized, however, this didn’t entirely preclude the possibility that she might be responsible for Marena’s death.
“I don’t suppose the police have told you if they suspect anyone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “They’re all closemouthed. I think they view me as a doddering old woman, a woman too wrapped up in grief to be of any use to them. Well, I do grieve her, but my grief is tempered by the fact that I lost her long ago.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She shrugged. “The older she got, the more Marena grew apart from me. I was not the sort of woman she wished for in a mother.”
“Many young women have difficulties with their mothers,” I said. At least I could offer that comfort honestly.
“Perhaps,” she said vaguely. “But it was different with Marena. She had ambitions, and she intended to achieve them. She meant to leave me and Allingcross behind.”
Poor Marena. She would never accomplish that goal now; she would never achieve all the dreams she had had. I had to fight back the tears that sprang to my eyes. It would do no good to cry in front of Mrs. Hodges. She was not the sort of woman who believed that tears were of any help.
I cleared my throat, changing the subject to something a bit less sentimental.
“Did they ask you if Marena had been seeing anyone? A man, I mean?” I knew, of course, there had been her relationship with Darien, but I wondered if Mrs. Hodges knew of it.
She snorted. “There were always young men,” she said in a cold voice. “Too many of them for her own good.”
“I knew about Bertie, of course,” I said, hoping it would prod her on.
She nodded, her expression grim. “Bertie Phipps was a young man with ambition, too. Marena appreciated that in him, hoped she’d be able to mold them both, I suppose, but I knew better. Bertie Phipps was always going to be a village boy. Try though she might to change him, he was never going anywhere there weren’t horses.”
I was surprised at this bit of insight from Mrs. Hodges. She’d never approved of Marena’s relationship with Bertie from what I’d heard, but it sounded as though she’d understood Bertie well. Perhaps it was that she, too, was not the sort of person who would ever leave the village where she had been born.
“Before him, it was that Langford boy,” she went on. “The Crooks boy before that. She was always looking for someone who might sweep her off her feet, give her the kind of glamorous life she wanted.”
It made sense that she had fallen under Darien’s spell. He was definitely the sort of young man who might dazzle a woman into believing he could introduce her to a more lavish and exciting life.
“I don’t suppose that any of those young men might have wished to harm her?”
She looked at me for just a moment, shrewdly, I thought, and then she shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose one of them might. She was always throwing one over for the other. The latest of them was that handsome young fellow, your husband’s brother, isn’t he?”
So she knew about Darien after all. Perhaps I had underestimated her.
“Darien is my husband’s half brother.”
She nodded. “I understand
she had taken a fancy to him. He’s the sort that’s usually up to no good, but Marena wouldn’t have minded that. I daresay it would have appealed to her.”
She said these things with apparently no fear of offending me, though I certainly wasn’t offended. I barely knew Darien, but what I did know of him led me to believe that she was quite right. He wasn’t a young man to be trusted where matters of the heart were concerned. He had proved that already in his conduct toward Imogen.
Why was it, though, that she had the impression Marena might have enjoyed a liaison with a disreputable man? Marena had always seemed very proper to me. Why the unfair prejudice on her mother’s part?
I decided, for the moment, to change tactics. “Do you think the same person killed her that killed Bertie Phipps?”
“It seems likely, doesn’t it?”
“But who might it have been?”
She took a sip of her tea. I thought for a moment that she wasn’t going to answer me, but at last she said, “I’ve been thinking it over. There are people who might have wanted Bertie dead and people who might have wished to kill Marena. But who wanted to harm them both? That is a more difficult question.”
Though I hated to admit it, I agreed with her. It seemed that every motive for Marena’s death led back to the fact that she might have known something Bertie had told her or seen something the day he was killed. But what? It was still so maddeningly unclear what it was Bertie had known that might have been worth killing for.
I thought suddenly of my conversation with Mrs. Cotton.
“Mrs. Hodges, what do you know about the death of Sara Busby?”
She looked up at me, her gaze suddenly sharp. “Why do you want to know about that?”
I had never really been directly challenged on one of my questions before, not in so harsh a manner, at least. I was momentarily taken aback, but then I realized that Mrs. Hodges was already grieving, and I had no doubt brought up something that must be very painful for her. After all, she had nearly lost Marena in that crash.
But no. It was not grief in her expression; it was something sharp and perceptive, something that told me my answer to her question was important.
A Deception at Thornecrest Page 23
