A Deception at Thornecrest

by Ashley Weaver

  “I don’t know exactly,” I admitted. “It just occurred to me.”

  “It’s interesting that you should bring it up when discussing motives for Marena’s death,” she said.

  My skin prickled suddenly, as though I was on the precipice of an important revelation. I leaned forward as much as the baby would allow. “Why do you say that?” I asked softly.

  She looked up at me. “Because it was Marena who was driving when that car went off the road and killed Sara Busby.”

  26

  “MARENA WAS DRIVING the car when the accident occurred?” I repeated.

  Mrs. Hodges nodded. “It was she who drove them off the road, she who was responsible for the accident.”

  I sat still, trying to absorb this information and its implications. “Why did Mrs. Busby say she had been driving?” I asked at last.

  “To spare Marena, I assume. The girl wasn’t old enough to drive, but Elaine was often spoiling them, giving in to their pleas. I suppose Marena might have got in a good deal of trouble if the truth was known.”

  And so Mrs. Busby took the blame for the accident that paralyzed her and killed her daughter. It was an act of supreme sacrifice, and I marveled that she had been able to do it. “And she’s never told anyone.”

  “Not to my knowledge. Elaine has always been a bit too saintly for her own good.”

  “And Marena has carried the guilt with her all these years,” I mused aloud. “Even going so far as to live in the vicarage to help Mrs. Busby.”

  Mrs. Hodges gave me a grim smile. “If you want to believe that. I think the truth of it was that she was afraid Mrs. Busby would reveal the truth one day, and she would be forced to answer for it.”

  “Surely not,” I said. “She always seemed very fond of the Busbys.”

  “My daughter was fond of whomever she thought might be able to benefit her in some way.”

  She must have seen the flicker of disgust in my expression, for she waved a hand. “Not a nice thing to say about one’s dead daughter. I understand that. But I’ve never been a woman to sugarcoat the truth.”

  “It was only an accident,” I said. “She was very young.”

  Her stern gaze met mine. “She was responsible for that child’s death, nonetheless.”

  I wondered if Mrs. Hodges had expressed these sentiments to Marena. Somehow I thought she likely had—if not in words, then in her attitude. It certainly wouldn’t have eased Marena’s conscience at all to know that her mother viewed her as responsible for the tragic outcome of a terrible mistake.

  It made even more sense now that the Busbys had taken her under their wing. No doubt they had realized that Mrs. Hodges was not the sort of person who would empathize with her daughter after what had happened.

  “She was never a good girl,” her mother said. “Too much like her father.”

  I tried not to show my shock at the dreadful thing this woman was saying about her only child, a child that had just died.

  “A youthful accident did not define her goodness.” I felt it my duty to say that much on Marena’s behalf.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Mrs. Hodges said.

  I did not find out what she did mean, however, for the maid appeared suddenly in the parlor door, a concerned expression on her face.

  “Inspector Wilson is here, ma’am. He wants to see you.”

  “Tell him I have a guest.”

  “I did, but…”

  “But I wouldn’t be put off,” Inspector Wilson said good-naturedly, coming into the room.

  “Have you found out who killed my daughter?” Mrs. Hodges asked by way of greeting.

  “I’ve come to speak to you about a rather private matter,” Inspector Wilson said, his gaze flickering to me.

  I began to rise from my chair, but Mrs. Hodges held up a hand. “You may say what you like in front of Mrs. Ames.”

  Inspector Wilson looked at me, one brow raising ever so slightly. I knew he felt that I was interfering again. Perhaps I was. But we were so close to the solution that I simply could not give up the chase.

  He cleared his throat. “We’ve had some results from our chemist.”

  “Yes?” She sounded neither concerned nor very interested, only impatient.

  “It seems that your daughter was poisoned with cyanide salts.”

  My stomach clenched. So it had been the same poison that Mrs. Busby had purchased at the apothecary shop.

  I thought I should mention it to Inspector Wilson, though I was sure he probably already knew as much. Nevertheless, this newest revelation about Marena’s driving the car that killed Sara Busby had put things in a new light. Was it possible that Mrs. Busby had carried a grudge for all these years, that she had finally decided to enact her revenge? I found it difficult to believe, but that didn’t mean it was impossible.

  Inspector Wilson, oblivious to my inner turmoil, went on. “The poison wasn’t in the tea. It was in the jar of honey. Honey you brought to the vicarage, I understand.”

  If he meant this revelation to startle Mrs. Hodges into a confession, I could only imagine he was greatly disappointed by her response.

  “Nonsense,” she harrumphed.

  “The chemist is quite sure,” Inspector Wilson said.

  “There was nothing in that honey. I ate from that jar myself the very morning she died, shortly before she visited. I brought the remainder of it to her that afternoon with a few other dainties. It was the rosemary honey. Only she and I liked it.”

  “Inspector,” I said abruptly. “Will you indulge me?”

  He looked suddenly weary, but his patina of politeness remained intact. “In what way, Mrs. Ames?”

  I knew what I was about to suggest was highly unusual, but I had an instinct that it might just be the answer to bringing the case to a close. “Might we all go to the vicarage? I think that, perhaps, if we get everyone together, we might be able to make some sense of this.”

  I awaited his answer with bated breath. I felt that we were so near the solution. It was almost as though it were hanging there, above us, just waiting to be snatched, if we could only reach up and grab it.

  “I don’t know…” Inspector Wilson began. “It’s rather unusual.”

  “Nothing official,” I said. “Just a conversation. I really do feel that it could be useful.”

  I put my hand on my stomach and tried to look in need of sympathy. It seemed my body was inclined to aid me in the performance, for there was a sudden gripping tightness in my abdomen that caused me to draw in a sharp breath.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Ames?” Inspector Wilson asked warily.

  “Certainly,” I replied, the pain letting up almost immediately. “But I do think it would be beneficial if we could speak to the Busbys about a few things.”

  He seemed to be considering it, but it was Mrs. Hodges, surprisingly, who settled the matter.

  “If she thinks it’ll do good, why not go to the vicarage. It can’t harm anything, after all.”

  She was the last person I would have expected to be my ally, but at this moment I would take what I could get.

  Inspector Wilson hesitated for just a moment and then sighed. “Very well. Shall we go?”

  * * *

  WE REACHED THE vicarage, and our odd little party was shown into the drawing room by the maid, May, who was clearly curious about the disparate group of characters that had gathered at the door.

  “Mrs. Ames, Inspector Wilson, and Mrs. Hodges, ma’am,” she said as we followed her into the room.

  I was surprised to see Imogen sitting on the sofa. Mrs. Busby’s chair was drawn up beside her. The vicar was sitting in a chair near the fireplace, but he and Imogen rose when we entered.

  “Welcome, all,” the vicar said brightly.

  “Vicar,” Inspector Wilson said with a nod. “And Mrs. Busby. Miss Prescott.”

  “Hello, Imogen,” I said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “No, I suppose not. I … I just wanted to talk
a few things over with the vicar and Mrs. Busby.”

  “We’re sorry to intrude,” I said.

  “We have a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Inspector Wilson said, using the officialness of his position to take charge of the situation.

  “Shall I go?” Imogen asked.

  Inspector Wilson glanced at me then. It had been, after all, my idea that we come here. Should she leave? She was as involved in this as any of us, I supposed. And she was still on my list of suspects. Perhaps it was a lucky thing that she had shown up here.

  “No,” I said. “Why don’t you stay?”

  “Have a seat, will you?” the vicar asked. He had been standing quietly to one side of the room, but now he ushered us toward chairs like a gentle shepherd.

  We sat. I felt another pang in my stomach and back as I eased myself into the seat. It gripped me for just a moment before I shifted slightly and it let go.

  “Now,” said the vicar pleasantly. “What is it we can do for you?”

  “We’ve discovered the source of Miss Hodges’s poisoning,” Inspector Wilson said without preamble. “It was in the rosemary honey that she had with her tea.”

  There was a hushed silence in the room. “Did she prepare her tea herself?” Inspector Wilson asked.

  Mrs. Busby looked stricken. “I … I fixed her tea.”

  “And you put the rosemary honey in it?” There was no hint of accusation in Inspector Wilson’s tone. I knew that he and Mrs. Busby had always been on good terms, and I didn’t think he truly suspected her capable of the murder. But I inwardly applauded him for asking the question that had to be asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I did. But I didn’t … I didn’t wish to harm her.”

  “Of course not, dear,” the vicar said gently.

  “Mrs. Busby, there is … the question of the poison’s origin,” I said.

  Inspector Wilson looked sharply at me, but I pretended not to notice.

  “I was purchasing something at the apothecary shop and happened to notice your name in the poison register.”

  “My … my name…” Her face clouded and then cleared. “Oh, yes, of course. I did buy some poison a few weeks ago. To kill rats. Marena told me there were a great many of them in the garden shed and asked if I might purchase it. I don’t like to kill the creatures, of course, but I couldn’t have them running about. They might spread disease.”

  “Why didn’t Miss Hodges buy the poison herself?” Inspector Wilson asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Busby said. “I believe I was on my way to the shop and asked if there was anything she needed.”

  “You went alone?” he asked, glancing at her chair.

  “I often help her get to a place and then leave her to manage,” the vicar put in with a fond smile. “She prefers to do things on her own.”

  Mrs. Busby nodded. “I like to do things for myself. It makes me feel … less helpless.”

  “I see,” Inspector Wilson said. “So you purchased the poison and did what with it?”

  “I gave it to the gardener. It went into the shed, I suppose. I haven’t seen it since.”

  “I wonder,” Inspector Wilson said mildly, “how it was that cyanide salts came to be in the honey?”

  All the color drained from Mrs. Busby’s face. “You … you don’t mean that’s what killed her.”

  “It’s exactly what I mean,” Inspector Wilson replied.

  “But … but I didn’t … Who would … I would never do such a thing. Why would I?” She burst into tears.

  In the midst of this rather dramatic scene, May came back to the door, her face anxious. “You’ve more company, ma’am,” she said to the still-crying Mrs. Busby. “Lady Alma and Mr. Ames and … Mr. Ames.”

  I wasn’t sure what Milo and Darien were doing here with Lady Alma, but I supposed they might as well round out our little group of the players involved in this drama.

  “Show them in,” the vicar said. He sounded as though he was pleased to see more people traipsing into the strange tableau.

  One person not pleased, however, was Imogen. Her face had gone white, and I realized that she had not seen Darien since arriving in Allingcross. I supposed we were about to have another scene.

  A moment later Lady Alma, Milo, and Darien came into the room.

  “We were out for a ride and saw your car and the inspector’s, Mrs. Ames,” said Lady Alma. “Thought we’d drop in and … I say, what’s the matter, Elaine?”

  “We’ve been discussing the murders,” I said, feeling that things were suddenly getting out of hand.

  “Chin up,” Lady Alma said, going to Mrs. Busby’s side. “It’s all been rather hard, but there are brighter days ahead. Isn’t that so, vicar?”

  “Yes, it’s very true, Lady Alma. There is always hope for tomorrow.”

  I looked over at Milo, a question in my gaze.

  “Darien and I were out riding and came upon Lady Alma. Is everything all right?”

  I nodded. In defiance of this answer, my abdomen clenched again. I did my best to ignore it.

  I glanced at Darien. He had clearly noticed Imogen, but if he was surprised to see her there, he did a good job of concealing it. He smiled slightly, as though finding the woman he had wed under false pretenses sitting in the parlor was a pleasant surprise.

  “Darien, don’t you suppose you ought to at least say hello to Imogen?” I asked.

  Darien frowned, glancing around the room. “Imogen? Is she here?”

  I thought for a moment he was playing some sort of cruel joke, ignoring the woman as though he didn’t know her. But then I saw Imogen’s face. It wasn’t sadness or embarrassment or even indignation that was written there; it was fear.

  And then she turned and darted toward the door of the parlor.

  27

  IT WAS INSPECTOR Wilson who stepped in front of her and caught her. “Just a moment there, miss. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “I … I need to get some air,” she said. She tried to push past him, but his grip on her arm tightened.

  “Wait just a minute.”

  She hesitated with the poised air of a bird about to take flight, and I thought she might make another run for the door. Then her shoulders slumped, and she moved back to the sofa.

  I looked at Darien. He was watching her with interest, but no recognition.

  “This isn’t Imogen, I take it?” I asked him.

  “I’ve never seen her before in my life.” He didn’t sound angry or even surprised, just a bit curious.

  I turned back to look at the young woman who had been calling herself Imogen Prescott. Indeed, it seemed that all eyes in the room went to her. The thoughts swarmed through my head. If she wasn’t really the woman who Darien had met in Brighton, who was she? What was her connection with Bertie? If not a lover, perhaps she was a relation who had arrived for some unknown reason and had an altercation with him. Perhaps she was the killer after all, and I was still on the wrong track. But I had been so sure …

  The room was silent as we all waited for some explanation.

  She said nothing for a long moment, and then at last she began to speak, her voice low and a bit breathless. “Imogen Prescott is my sister.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. So she wasn’t a relation of Bertie’s, but of the woman Darien had deceived. Why, then, had she come to Allingcross?

  There was another pause, and then she drew in a deep breath, as though deciding it was time to unburden herself. “We both work at the pub near the racecourse,” she said. “That’s where we met Bertie. We were friendly, the three of us. Bertie was nice. Polite. I half hoped he would catch Imogen’s eye, for she always fancied the wrong blokes. But Bertie only had eyes for Marena. Then Imogen went on holiday in Brighton, and she fell for the wrong sort of fellow again. She told me, when she got home, how she met Darien and that he was to meet her in London. I knew right away he wasn’t telling the truth. When he didn’t ever arrive, she was heartbroke
n.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked, afraid for a moment that something dire might have occurred.

  “She’s still in London. She was just going to let him get away with it.” She didn’t look at Darien as she spoke, and he made no attempt to interject.

  “And you decided to come to Thornecrest and confront him for her?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  So it had all been an act from the beginning. I was surprised. She had seemed so genuine.

  “I felt very sorry for you,” I said, letting a note of disapproval into my tone. After all, she had deceived Milo and me in her quest for … for what?

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” I asked. “We could have helped you and your sister.”

  “At first, I didn’t know Darien wasn’t really Milo. It caught me by surprise, when I arrived at Thornecrest and found you married to him and expecting a baby,” she said. “That’s why I cried when I found out. I felt so bad for poor Imogen.”

  It made sense now, how she had identified the photo of Milo as Darien. She had seen only her sister’s photograph of him. In our wedding photo, taken several years ago, Milo had looked very much like Darien did now. I thought of the hesitant, searching expression she had had when meeting Milo. No doubt it was only upon seeing him, in the flesh and a bit older, that she realized he was not the same man her sister had met in Brighton.

  “What is your name, miss?” Inspector Wilson asked her.

  “Eloise,” she said. “Eloise Prescott.”

  “But why did you go on pretending to be Imogen?” I asked, still not entirely understanding the ploy. It would have been one thing to arrive and confront Darien. It was quite another to go about impersonating her sister.

  She flushed. “I don’t know. Once I realized Imogen had been duped, and that it wasn’t likely I was going to encounter Darien after all, I … I thought…” Her words trailed off.

  “You thought we might be in a position to help you and, by extension, your sister.”

  She nodded.

  “When I saw Bertie at the festival, I was afraid that he was going to mention to someone that I was Eloise and not Imogen. Of course, I had to avoid Darien as well. That wasn’t hard, as he, cad that he is, had no interest in doing the honorable thing and meeting with me … Imogen. I knew from the moment she mentioned him that he was a rotter.”