by Cindy Anstey
“There are too many whos,” Daphne complained.
“Yes, I had best make a list. I don’t know why Investigating Murder and Mayhem did not mention that, but I believe a list of suspects would be rather handy.”
“Girls? Are you coming downstairs?” Aunt Hazel’s voice drifted through the open door, and then her disembodied head popped across the threshold. “Is there a problem—another one?”
“Daphne is worried she won’t be prepared for her coming-out,” Sophia said quickly. She did not want to discuss Andrew’s death with her aunt in front of Daphne. And to mention the peach gown when Daphne was still riled up would just be inviting trouble.
“Oh, Daphne, I have told you, there is plenty of time. If your dresses are made too soon, they will be last year’s colors and styles. You would look horribly out of date. It would not do. No, we must wait until the winter. We will take a journey to town just before Christmas.” Aunt Hazel sighed, almost a soulful groan, as she stepped back into the room. “We could bring Charlotte. I’m sure she would know what would best suit. She looks so elegant these days.”
“What a splendid idea, Mama,” Daphne said with no little sarcasm. “Dress advice from the reverend’s daughter.”
“She might be your sister-in-law one day, my girl. We thought Andrew had caught her eye but it seems she’s had a change of heart.” Aunt Hazel giggled in a girlish manner. “I believe William is quite taken with Charlotte now and she tries to be helpful,” Aunt Hazel said. “In fact, she will be here soon to discuss the charity booth we are planning for the county fair. Would you and Sophia like to join us?”
“Thank you, no.” Sophia shook her head with perhaps a little too much vehemence. She did not want to be distracted; she had to concentrate on her case. It sounded so official when she called it a case! “I’m going to West Ravenwood to … do a little shopping.”
Folding her pixie face into a well-defined frown, Aunt Hazel shook her head. “Not a good plan, Sophia. Best stay nearby. There is a restlessness about town that does not bode well.”
“Not to worry, Aunt, I will take Betty,” Sophia said casually, joining her and Daphne in the corridor.
They waited for Sophia to grab her bonnet and gloves from her room, and then they strolled to the front of the house and down one of the wide staircases. Charlotte was announced just as they reached the bottom, and Sophia decided that it would be best to hurry on her way before being caught up in the machinations of the charity booth; she would reread the Runner’s book and start her list later.
“I didn’t expect you’d be needing me for another half hour, miss,” Betty moaned about being summoned early. “I hadn’t finished me morning tea.”
Mrs. Curtis stood, the epitome of prim and proper, in the entrance by the front door, having fetched Betty from the kitchen. “There will be tea aplenty when you return,” Mrs. Curtis reassured the disgruntled maid and signaled for the footman to open the door.
“All this rush and hurry,” Betty continued to grumble. “Is we avoiding something, miss? Or someone?”
Meeting Mrs. Curtis’ inquisitive glance, Sophia smiled. “A very good possibility,” she said when Mrs. Curtis returned her smile with a shrug. “Shall we get a wiggle on? Mr. Fraser will be waiting for us.”
“What? The Runner?”
“Yes, indeed.” Sophia was excited about the prospect, even if Betty wasn’t. Jeremy Fraser was hard to not appreciate.
Jeremy, as Sophia was now calling him in her mind, was already waiting at the corner of Rover and High Street when they arrived. His handsome profile attracted a fair number of glances, from ladies young and old. He smiled, rather broadly, when he saw them across the street.
Sophia was somewhat surprised to find that her heart beat faster as they approached, and she was quite out of breath, though there was no reason; she had not been hurrying.
* * *
Jeremy reentered the weapons store, The Cutting Edge, on the main street of West Ravenwood with Sophia on his arm. It was an orderly shop, with glass cases lining the perimeter and one down the center. Knives of all shapes and sizes sat in straight rows on the shelves, shining brightly as if just polished.
The proprietor watched from a dark corner in the back. The man leaned more than sat upon a high stool, watching with great intensity.
Jeremy had come earlier than arranged, planning to slip into the store and ask his questions before the agreeable Miss Thompson appeared. He hoped to prove Sophia wrong, to demonstrate that the inhabitants of West Ravenwood would not be uncooperative if they “investigated” separately. A Bow Street Runner was usually granted respect. Unfortunately, the memo had not made it to The Cutting Edge.
Mr. Tilter was, indeed, a crusty sort, gruff and prickly, ready to take offense at the least provocation. The conversation had not made it past introductions and a general observation of it being a lovely summer day: Mr. Tilter had thought it would rain, citing the cool breeze as a telltale sign; the streets would turn to mud and Mr. Tilter suggested that Jeremy head straight back to the inn, collect his belongings and set off for the coast. Mr. Tilter believed it was always sunny and warm by the sea.
Jeremy, who had spent many a summer in Weymouth with his family, was hard pressed to agree.
And so, upon Jeremy’s entering the second time, Mr. Tilter acted as if they had never met, even allowing Sophia to introduce them. He smiled broadly—at Sophia—greeting her by name and made light conversation. When Jeremy brought out the knife that Mr. Waverley had found in the woods, Mr. Tilter nodded and laid it gingerly on the case in front of him. He ignored Betty, who wandered around the front of the store staring at the varied blades and stylized hilts. The man focused his attention entirely on the eight-inch blade and the carved and painted ebony handle.
“Ah yes, it’s been a few years since I have seen this beauty but it was indeed one of mine.” He peeled back the handkerchief a little further. “Beautifully carved. Made on one of the islands in the Dutch East Indies. Don’t know what these creatures are supposed to be but they are rather menacing. I bought the knife from a sailor coming off a Balinese ship in London. It’s a shame the wood has weathered and this”—he lifted the knife, using the handkerchief to wipe away the dirt caught in the crevices—“has been ill used, I believe.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “I thought Mr. Dankworth would know better.”
Jeremy straightened. “Mr. Dankworth? Who is he? Why would this knife mean anything to him?”
The merchant continued to buff the knife as if deaf to Jeremy’s words.
Sophia looked back and forth between them and then smiled at the merchant. “Why would Mr. Dankworth be involved?”
Mr. Tilter laughed with little amusement. “Fancies himself a collector, Miss Thompson. Lives down by the river, on the other side of town. He’s got knives, shields, lances, and even a sword or two.”
“You sold this knife to him?” Jeremy asked. He waited for the man to answer but he did not … until Sophia repeated his question.
“Yes, indeed, he did buy it from me. Got it for a bargain, too. Surprised it was left in the woods, though. Thought he’d treated his weapons better than that.” He glanced at Jeremy. “Collects unusual ones, you know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tilter,” Sophia said warmly. Jeremy could feel her excitement. “We appreciate your help.”
“No we, about it. You! I helped you, my girl. Don’t you go around tellin’ people that I helped him.” He jerked his head in Jeremy’s direction. “A Runner. Lordy, that would make a swarm of angry bees. No! Police persons are not welcome in this part of the country.”
And with those words, Mr. Tilter shooed them and Betty out of the shop. He closed the door so quickly that Sophia’s skirts were caught in the doorjamb and Jeremy had to give them a good tug to get them free.
“Great heavens! This is scandalous!” a voice said from behind. “Get your hands off my cousin’s skirts, Runner!”
Jeremy whirled around to find William Wave
rley and Miss Charlotte Dewey behind them. However, despite the young gentleman’s words and predatory stance, Jeremy could see that William was trying not to smile.
“Really, William. People are going to stare if you make such remarks,” Sophia huffed, pushing past the newly arrived couple while shaking out her skirts. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes on Charlotte. “Were you not going to discuss charity with Aunt Hazel?”
“Your aunt was not feeling quite up to snuff—something about a mouse—and so dearest William here”—she squeezed dearest William’s arm—“thought to take a walk.” She glanced up at him and batted her eyes; it was the type of look that made Jeremy want to laugh. It was part flirtation, part adoration, and part nonsense. Still, William seemed to take it in stride and appeared flattered.
Shaking his head, Jeremy allowed his eyes to wander further up the street only to find that he was under scrutiny. Actually, they all were.
Waiting at the next corner, staring with no attempt to disguise that fact, Constable Marley watched them all—even Betty. There was no hostility in his stare, just curiosity. But it felt intrusive and irritating.
It was also clear that the constable, for whatever reason, thought their behavior was irregular. In fact, his posture was more of a chastisement than that of a protector. There was no support or commiseration in his stance. There would be no sharing of information.
For good or ill, this was truly Jeremy’s investigation; Marley’s theories were at odds with his. Jeremy was on his own.
A tinkle of laughter drew his attention and Jeremy turned toward Sophia. She was teasing William with cousinly banter. Their eyes met and he held her gaze for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary. When she smiled, Jeremy knew he was not on his own; he had Sophia Thompson by his side.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dark Corners of Forgotten Spaces
“I shall see Mr. Dankworth on my own,” Jeremy stated more firmly than he had intended as he walked with Sophia back up to Allenton Park. Betty trailed behind, looking bored to distraction.
They had left William and Miss Dewey to stroll the main street, window shopping and chatting about important matters—such as Charlotte’s new horse and William’s appreciation of roast beef. It had been at Charlotte’s prodding that the group had separated. She had not welcomed the serious tone that Jeremy and Sophia had inserted into their conversation. Frivolity seemed to be the order of their day.
Sophia, however, took the state of affairs seriously. “See Mr. Dankworth yourself? Or by yourself?”
Jeremy considered the semantics of the question. “Well, if Marley … Constable Marley is inclined, he might join me.”
“I’m sure he will be disinclined to assist,” Sophia said. “The constable seems to have taken a dislike to you, I believe, Mr. Fraser. I’m sure you have noticed.”
Jeremy nodded. “I have indeed. But the point I was trying to make is that while I see no peril to you while we are inside a shop on the main street of West Ravenwood, visiting a private residence on the other side of the River Coope might be … ill-considered.”
“Scandalous!” Sophia laughed.
“Actually, I was thinking dangerous. The man, Mr. Dankworth, owns the knife that killed your cousin. Until I take his measure, I do not know what he is capable of.”
Sophia laughed again. “Oh dear, poor Mr. Dankworth. He’ll be puzzled by the insinuation.”
“Pardon?”
“You see, Mr. Dankworth is not your murderer, my dear Mr. Fraser. While I’ve never met the gentleman myself, I have heard of him. A kindly, well-educated elderly gentleman confined to his home. He is infirm, you see, and therefore could not have wandered through the woods last year, let alone stabbed my cousin with enough force to kill him.”
“Bedridden?”
“No, I believe he uses a chair. Again, hardly suitable for navigating over the roots and through puddles of a forest. Besides, he has nothing to do with the family as far as I know … except, apparently, owning the lethal weapon that dispatched my cousin.”
“Yes, I see the problem.”
“Indeed. While Mr. Dankworth will be able to discuss the weapon, being the murderer or even helping us catch him is highly unlikely. I’ll meet you by the front gate around two—no one appreciates an unexpected visit in the morning. We wouldn’t want to start out on the wrong foot. And no need to announce our intentions to the family, I think. It would merely cause them concern. I’ll bring Betty again.”
Jeremy looked over his shoulder quickly enough to see Betty’s grimace. “If your family would object, I can go on my own, as I said.”
“My extended family is not aware of my plan to be a Bow Street Detective. They’re going to have to come to terms with it eventually. I’ve only discussed my interest with my papa and Daphne as yet.”
“I imagine your papa is enthused and looking forward to announcing your occupation to the world.”
“Hardly. He thinks I’ll grow out of it. Find a husband, settle down … you know, the usual.”
“You are nothing like the usual, Miss Thompson.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fraser. I will take that as a compliment.”
“Exactly as it was intended,” he said with a smile. And then he stopped, shook his head to clear his thoughts, and looked up at the sky. “Most young ladies would prefer to marry, have children, and run a household.”
“I no longer have that option,” Sophia said, and then explained the situation with her mother’s brother. “Were I the marrying kind, this would be devastating. But I’m not, so it isn’t.”
Rather confused, Jeremy nodded as if it all made perfect sense. Coming up to the intricately carved entrance gate, Jeremy bowed, offering a perfunctory farewell—after all, they would see one another in four hours—and he turned, heading back into the lively metropolis of West Ravenwood.
* * *
In the end, Sophia did not meet Mr. Dankworth that day, and neither did Jeremy. The elderly gentleman was feeling poorly, and his housekeeper—more of a dragon than anything else in Sophia’s mind—would not let them past the front hall. They would have to return some other time and continue their investigations along a different path until then.
Returning to Allenton Park without having advanced the case whatsoever was most disagreeable and made Sophia peevish. Fortunately, Daphne was tied up in her own woes and was blithely unaware that her cousin was smoldering with frustration.
“Charlotte came back with William, and she and Mother have been in the drawing room for the better part of two hours—making important decisions on the color, size, and purpose of their booth. I hope the homeless children appreciate their efforts because I certainly don’t. It’s tedious and repetitive. Boring, boring, and then again boring!” Daphne huffed. “She is a flatterer. Every suggestion that Mother makes is either brilliant or amazing. Really, I can’t stand to listen to them anymore. Even Mrs. Curtis nodded when I said as much, and she’s not known for being critical.”
“Once they’ve made their plans, do they need help manning the booth?” Sophia asked, trying to diffuse Daphne’s tension.
The girls were relaxing on their favorite bench in the bright afternoon sun of the conservatory, hidden from the door by the ferns. The air smelled sweet and earthy, a soft breeze wafting through the open windows. It was a tranquil setting, greatly appreciated by Sophia and hardly noticed by Daphne.
“Help at the booth? Oh, quite likely.” Abandoning her slouch, Daphne straightened. “You weren’t going to offer, were you? Please say you’re not. If you do, I’ll be expected to do the same. I would much rather wander about the fairgrounds—it’s going to be held in the north field—and chat with any young gentleman who might happen to attend.”
Sophia looked up in surprise. “Are we talking about anyone in particular?”
Daphne grinned. She pulled a leaf off the closest fern, trying to look nonchalant. “Dylan Crewe might be there. You remember him. The one with blond hair and
blue eyes, cute dimple on his right cheek … or is it his left? Anyway, he—Dylan Crewe—is home for the summer. Been in Cambridge at the university all year!”
She flounced back against the white wicker bench. “But he won’t be at the fair if Andrew’s killer has not yet been found. No one will.” She shook her head. “Andrew would have a laugh if he saw me now, all tied up in knots, worried about being murdered in my bed. He loved to be amused, loved to ride pell-mell down the south field, and loved to ride the hounds. He was too loud, too saucy, and too vain, but he was young. I’m sure he would have become a fine human as he aged. But he didn’t have a chance to grow old. And now, because of Andrew’s murder, I’m worried about going to the fair. Our own fair!”
Sophia ignored Daphne’s assessment of her brother’s character. She did not see Andrew through loving eyes, as did his sister. Andrew had made Sophia miserable with his mockery and critical comments. She would learn who had killed him because it was wrong and the killer should pay for such a foul deed. Success here was her proving ground—entry into Bow Street—not a sentimental journey of revenge.
“You needn’t worry about being killed at the fair,” she said, sounding far more confident than she felt. “Murder is done in dark corners of forgotten spaces. No witnesses,” she said, staring out at the lawn.
“That was a very dramatic turn of phrase,” Daphne said, giving her cousin her favorite compliment.
“Thank—”
The air was suddenly full of glass, and their ears were battered by a loud crash. Daphne shrieked and Sophia gasped, throwing her arms up over her head for protection from the shards.
It was over in a flash but in that time, Daphne was cut across her cheek and Sophia’s arm was sliced, blood dripping onto her skirts.
