“Sometimes one wants to know where one comes from.” This was the first I had heard Darien speak up, and something in the words touched me.
Now, however, was not the time for sentiment. I needed to lead the others along the path of clues I had followed.
“That’s what induced her to break into your office, vicar,” I went on.
He looked at me, his eyes wide. “You think Marena did that?”
I nodded. The next bit was difficult to explain, as it involved Lady Alma’s foray into the vicar’s office and her examination of the documents in the desk drawer. She had called my attention to the financial documents, but there had been something else there, something that had seemed insignificant when she first mentioned it. But now I recalled something else.
“When I came to visit Marena after Bertie’s death, there were documents on her desk that she quickly cleared away. I believe they were parish records.”
“She wanted information about her father,” the vicar said.
I nodded. “I believe she was looking for him but trying to keep things quiet. I think it might also have been she who stole your things, though it would be hard to prove whether she did it or put Bertie up to it.”
“Bertie was quite mad for her,” Mrs. Busby said sadly.
“Not so mad that he would have stolen anything.” Lady Alma’s tone brooked no argument.
“Whatever the case,” I said, “she had taken up with Bertie, believing that it might be the way to a better life. Unfortunately, he was no more interested in a life outside his horses than her mother was with a life outside her bees. But then the idea came to her. If she killed her mother, she would have an inheritance. And then she would be free to live the life she wanted with whoever she chose.”
Mrs. Hodges’s perpetually grim expression grew a bit grimmer.
“I just can’t believe it,” Mrs. Busby whispered.
“I think she first mentioned the idea to Bertie, hoping he would go along with it. Perhaps he did break into your office, vicar, and she thought he would help her with another, larger crime. Whatever the case, I think things grew more complicated after the altercation with Darien at the inn.
“Bertie realized Marena had thrown him over for good and that she had her sights set on another young man. I think the idea that she was going to kill her mother weighed on his conscience. That’s why he mentioned a secret about Mrs. Hodges to you, Lady Alma, and why he also said something about it to Milo and me. Perhaps he thought she didn’t really mean it. Or perhaps he thought he could talk her out of it. When he learned that her affections had shifted, he knew he had to do something.”
“And things came to a head at the festival,” Inspector Wilson said. He seemed to realize the unintentionally macabre pun of his words and cleared his throat. “That is, she confronted Bertie about it.”
I nodded. “Marena was to meet Darien in that field, but somehow she encountered Bertie instead. Perhaps he followed her there to speak with her. He must have told Marena that he couldn’t allow her to go through with it, that he was planning to spoil her scheme by revealing the truth to her mother. They quarreled. She picked up a rock and hit him over the head with it.”
Mrs. Busby gasped.
“She then came back to the festival and pretended to be distraught when his body was discovered.” I considered it for a moment. “Perhaps she was, in a way. I think she cared about Bertie as much as she could care about anyone.”
“Where did I come into all of this?” Darien asked.
“Perhaps she thought you would come into money, being an unknown Ames relation returned to Thornecrest,” I said. “But then Imogen arrived in Allingcross, and Marena likely began to realize that your intentions were not necessarily of the long-term variety. Perhaps she had thought it would be best to go ahead with her original plan to kill her mother. That was why Bertie needed to be silenced.”
Another thought occurred to me. “Did you tell Marena about the woman you knew whose husband died in a riding accident?”
Darien nodded. “Marena seemed to enjoy hearing about the scandals from my past.”
“That must have given her the idea,” I said. “After she killed Bertie, she realized that your quarrel with him had presented her with the perfect opportunity. She could frame you for the murder.”
“She said she loved me,” Darien said in an injured tone. He had, I thought, some nerve to sound affronted after the way he had been treating women. Then again, the fact that he hadn’t plotted to murder any of them was a definite point in his favor.
“She acted quickly,” I continued. “She was always clever. After killing Bertie, she went and let Medusa out of her stall, spooking her in the process, and then put the saddle near Bertie’s body. I think it was her intention to make it look like a poor attempt to cover up a murder.”
“Then she must have put those things in my room,” Darien said. “But what about the blood on the boots?”
“Those were the vicar’s boots,” I said. “I think she put them on when she came to meet you in the field. She was wearing pale-colored shoes that day, and I assume she wanted to keep them clean. When she killed Bertie, she must have gotten blood on the boots.”
“She’d sometimes wear my garden boots when out walking,” the vicar said quietly. “To keep mud or damp grass from her own shoes.”
I remembered now that she’d been wearing them that day the festival committee had met for the final time at the vicarage. She’d come in windblown with muddy leather boots.
“She couldn’t very well return them to the shed with blood on them,” I said. “So I suppose she thought she might as well use them. She took the necklace and money Bertie had on him, and, when she returned to work at the inn, she put all of the items in Darien’s room. After that, she had only to wait for the right opportunity to introduce the likelihood of his guilt.”
“Only I did that,” Eloise said softly.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Darien said graciously. He was doing his best to charm her. I glanced at Eloise to see how this performance was affecting her, but she was not at all starry-eyed. Whatever her sister had seen in Darien, Eloise was seeing something much less appealing.
“You deserve to be punished for what you did to my sister, but not to hang,” she told him.
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Decent of you to say so.”
“But how … how did Marena end up being poisoned?” Mrs. Busby asked, bringing us back to the matter at hand. Her voice shook with the question, the weight of her part in placing the honey in Marena’s tea visible in the slope of her shoulders, and the vicar moved closer, reached out to take her hand.
“With Bertie gone and Darien accused of the crime, she decided to go ahead with her plans to kill her mother. After all, she already had the poison she had convinced Mrs. Busby to buy.”
“She did it the day you came to see me,” Mrs. Hodges said suddenly. “The day we were in the kitchen together. She asked me about rosemary honey, and I said I had only the one jar left. I offered it to her, but she declined. She must have slipped the poison in when I wasn’t looking, knowing I would eat it in due course.”
I nodded. “When she saw me, she made sure to say that you were ill. I think she wanted to introduce the idea so it wouldn’t be a surprise when you died. But then you gave her the rest of the rosemary honey,” I said.
She nodded. “I brought it round in a basket here to the vicarage. I … I thought she would like it.”
It was horribly ironic that a small kindness on Mrs. Hodges’s part was what had killed her daughter. Marena hadn’t counted on this consideration from her mother, and it had ultimately cost her her life.
“Lady Alma told me that she sipped the tea and suddenly her expression was stricken. She said ‘this tea tastes strange,’ or words to that effect, before she collapsed. But I wonder if what she was really going to say was ‘this tea tastes like rosemary.’ I think she realized, in that instant, what had happened.”<
br />
To some extent, I felt pity for her. It must have been dreadful to know that she was dying by her own hand. But, in a way, I suppose it had been justice. I was only glad no one else enjoyed Mrs. Hodges’s rosemary honey.
“I … I just can’t believe it. Marena … my dear Marena…” Mrs. Busby’s face crumbled then, and she began to cry again, great sobs that shook her shoulders.
“There, there, dear,” the vicar said softly, patting her back. “It’s going to be all right.”
I felt sorry for her. I knew that Marena had been a replacement of sorts for the daughter she had lost. A part of me also wondered, given that Marena and Sara had been quarreling at the time of the accident, if Marena had driven the car off the road on purpose. I suppose there would never be any way to know.
I looked then at Mrs. Hodges. She was watching me, and her honey-colored eyes caught mine and held. There was no anger in them, no condemnation in the fact that I had revealed her daughter was a killer.
“I was afraid she was like her father,” she said, and there was very little sadness in her voice. The hardness that was usually there had gone, too. I found it surprising that it was only now, when she knew her daughter had wanted her dead, that there was some softness in her tone toward her. “From the time she was young, there was something about her that worried me. I tried to do right by her, but I suppose there was nothing I could have done to change her, not really.”
A bit of kindness might have helped, I thought to myself. But, then, Mrs. Hodges could not be held responsible for the decisions Marena had made of her own free will.
The vicar turned to Inspector Wilson then. “If it’s all right, Inspector, I’d like to take my wife to her room. She needs to rest.”
Inspector Wilson nodded. “All right, vicar.”
The vicar began to push Mrs. Busby’s wheelchair toward the door, but he stopped as he reached me. His usually tranquil expression had slipped ever so slightly, and he suddenly looked tired. However, his words were as selfless as ever, as soothing as they had always been to those in pain or in need of comfort. “You’ve done a good thing, my dear. A difficult and brave thing. Bless you for your courage.”
“Thank you, vicar,” I said softly.
Then he wheeled Mrs. Busby from the room.
“Well.” Inspector Wilson looked at me. “I’ll have to look into a few things, Mrs. Ames, but it seems you may have got it right. I’ll be in touch soon.”
He tipped his hat to us and left.
“I’ll be going now, too,” Mrs. Hodges said, rising from her chair. She would no doubt need some time alone to think things through.
She left the room, and I let out a breath. It was finally over. At least, in theory. I knew the reverberations of all of this would be felt in the village for a long time to come.
“I suppose I’ll go back to London now,” Eloise Prescott said. “Imogen was right. I should have just let things be. Coming to Allingcross was more trouble than it was worth. Much more trouble.”
She shot a meaningful look at Darien, who at least had the good grace to look slightly repentant.
“For what it’s worth,” he said. “Tell Imogen I’m sorry.”
“It’s not worth much,” she retorted. Then her expression softened slightly. “But it’s worth something.”
When she was gone, Darien turned to me. “You’re a marvel, Amory.”
“Thank you, Darien.”
“If it wasn’t for you, it might have meant my neck.”
“I only did what was right.”
“Perhaps I ought to try that sometime,” he replied. And then he winked at me, audacious boy.
“I feel I need some air,” Lady Alma said suddenly. I didn’t know what she felt about all of this, but I knew she wasn’t going to share it with us. It wasn’t in her nature. What was, however, was her love for her horses, and she was ready to turn to them for comfort.
“Ames,” she said to Milo, “if you and your brother would like to come to the Priory and see Medusa for yourself, I think you’ll still agree to let me breed her with your Xerxes.”
Milo looked over at me. “I think I’d better go back to Thornecrest.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Go ahead. You and Darien will enjoy it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I could use with a bit of air myself. Send Markham back to Thornecrest, will you? I’m going to walk.” I had another cramp in my side, and my back was aching. A walk would do me good.
“Are you all right, darling?” Milo asked as we all left the vicarage, Lady Alma and Darien a bit ahead of us discussing Medusa and Xerxes. Milo’s eyes were searching mine. I wondered if he could see the discomfort in them.
“Perfectly fine,” I reassured him, even as I pressed a hand to my throbbing side. “I’m just a bit tense from all the excitement, I think.”
“I’m going to take you home and ring for Dr. Jordan.”
“No, no. You go riding with Darien. It will be good for you.”
He glanced at his brother, who was doing his best to charm Lady Alma. He had a difficult task ahead of him; she was no one’s fool.
“Give him a chance, Milo,” I said softly. “Whatever the past, he’s your brother, and you can’t escape that.”
He sighed but gave me a smile. “I suppose I can see how things play out.”
“That’s all any of us can do.”
He dropped a kiss on my cheek, then sent Markham on his way and went to meet his brother and Lady Alma. They mounted their horses and rode away as I turned toward the little path that led to Thornecrest, lost in thought.
It was hard to believe that all of this had happened in our little village, hard to believe that Marena Hodges had been responsible for Bertie’s death and her own. I supposed one never could tell what lay behind closed doors or veiled eyes. Our village might be a quiet one, but deceit is universal.
I was halfway home when another sharp pang in my stomach stopped me cold. This was different from the annoying cramps that had come before. It was so intense it took my breath away. I clenched my teeth and tried to shift my posture, hoping it would ease the pain. This was most inconvenient when I still had a good distance back to Thornecrest.
And then suddenly I felt the water leave me, and I realized the truth of just how inconvenient the matter was.
I was having the baby.
29
I TRIED TO remain calm, fighting the pain that was coursing through me. I forced myself to draw in deep breaths through my nose and let them out through my teeth.
Things were progressing very swiftly, of that much I was certain. When at last the pain subsided, I began walking as quickly as I could along the path toward Thornecrest.
It was rough going, the pain intensifying between short periods of blessed relief.
At last I reached the grounds and walked toward the entryway, trying to keep my composure should I encounter someone. I rather hoped I would. Anyone. I needed someone to ring for the doctor.
But, as luck would have it, not even Grimes appeared as I made it through the front door and started toward the telephone. I thought about calling for Winnelda, but I wanted to make sure the doctor was on his way before Winnelda flew into a fit of hysterics.
Alas, it was not to be. I was halfway across the foyer when I was seized by another paroxysm of pain. Fighting back a groan, I reached out to grip the banister at the bottom of the stairs just as Winnelda was making her way down them. She looked at me, her eyes taking in my face, the clenched hand on the rail. I wanted to try to tell her not to panic, but I was near to panicking myself.
“Madam, are you…”
I knew I had to keep calm. It wouldn’t do for both of us to go to pieces. “Yes,” I said. “I believe…” The words were cut off by the intensity of the pain, and I gritted my teeth as I waited for the inevitable squeals and wringing of hands that usually accompanied any sort of excitement that occurred in Winnelda’s presence.
But then something qu
ite unexpected happened. The general look of flustered discomposure that usually appeared on her face at any hint of chaos gave way to one of understanding and immediate action. In a moment she was at my side.
“You’re having the baby, madam.”
Though it wasn’t a question, I nodded. I couldn’t speak just then, for I was grinding my teeth.
“Let’s get you into the bed. We’ll tend to things from there.”
“But … I … Mr. Ames … He’s at … the Priory.”
“I’ll fetch him presently,” she said, her tone calmer and firmer than I had ever heard. “But first you need to lie down.”
I didn’t feel much inclined to argue with her. The pain was coming in steady waves, very little reprieve between them now.
With one hand she took my arm, and, sliding the other hand around me, she supported me up the stairs.
“I know it hurts an awful lot, madam, but you’ll get through it. Women are sturdy creatures, and you’re stronger than many I know.” Her words were very sure, and I derived strength from this. I was about to endure an ordeal with which I had no experience, and the thought was terrifying.
“It’s too early,” I said, the worry that I had been trying to keep at the back of my mind coming to the surface.
“Not as early as all that,” she said as we reached the bedroom. She pulled back the bedding and helped me ease myself onto the bed. “My sister Tansy was born a good six weeks early, and it was all as right as rain. She was a little mite, but she’s very plump and pretty as can be now.”
I didn’t answer as another wave of pain washed over me. It seemed the length of time between these occurrences was still shortening. That meant the baby was coming soon, didn’t it?
“You must ring for Dr. Jordan, Winnelda,” I said through clenched teeth once the moment passed. “I don’t think there’s much time.”
“I’ll do it now,” she said, turning toward the door. “I’ll be right back. Just try to relax. Take deep breaths. I’ve done this plenty of times, and it’s all going to be fine.” Normally I was the one giving reassurances to Winnelda, but now it was she calming me with her words.
A Deception at Thornecrest Page 26
