by Cindy Anstey
Turning, she noted that the front door lock had not been forced and that the room was tidy—no overturned chairs or broken crockery. The assassin had not pushed his way in, nor had there been a fight. A collection of herbs lay on the table—half had been chopped and placed in small jars. It would seem that Bertha had been preparing bottles when the killer had knocked on the door. Pinching the leaves in one jar and rubbing them together produced the flowery smell of lavender. A shelf of glass jars offered tarragon, chives, sage, and many other herbs. The only label that gave Sophia pause identified the shriveled leaves as monkshood. It was half full.
Wolfsbane had been the instrument of Stacks’ death. Monkshood and wolfsbane were one and the same. Sophia eyed it with trepidation, but did not open the jar.
Continuing her search, Sophia returned to the storeroom for a closer look and found three rabbits hanging in the back of the small rough room that had been added, somewhat haphazardly, to the rear of the cottage. On nearby shelves, snares and ropes were a tangled mess. It would seem Bertha Tumbler had not been above poaching a few rabbits for her dinner.
A piece of folded paper had been stuffed into one of the snares. Sophia pulled it free, but replaced it when she saw that it was a personal letter.
A half hour or so passed before Sophia heard footsteps coming up the walk. Constable Marley was the first to rush through the door, Mr. Reyer hard on his heels. Both were panting, and when Jeremy arrived in much the same state, the cottage was suddenly full of the noises of three gentlemen trying to catch their breath.
As such, Sophia’s sigh of relief was not audible—being alone with a corpse had not been a comfortable situation. She did her best to hide her anxiety, dismay, and roiling stomach—disappointed that she had reacted adversely to the violent death. The gentlemen did not have to clench their fists or avert their eyes.
Naturally, the surgeon focused on Bertha, announcing the obvious—that she had died from a loss of blood.
Constable Marley wandered the room, clumsily shifting chairs and blankets, even looking in the kettle, of all places, and in the fireplace. Then he watched Jeremy as the Runner examined the different herb bottles on the shelf, paced out the room, and wrote notes in his journal.
“Why are you here?” the constable asked finally. His words were clipped, his expression angry as he glared at Jeremy. “This has nothing to do with Andrew Waverley; you are out of place and interfering with an investigation. The parish will not pay you for this work.”
Jeremy stared at the constable for a moment with a clenched jaw. “Nothing to do with Andrew? That remains to be seen. However, you cannot say the same thing about Stacks’ murder. There are several poisons on these shelves, including monkshood.”
“Bertha came to Allenton Park to speak to me yesterday, Constable Marley,” Sophia said, jumping to Jeremy’s defense. “I don’t know why, but it stands to reason that whatever her purpose, it had something to do with Andrew or Stacks. The whole town knows that I’m helping with the investigation. The rash of violent deaths have to be connected. It would be foolhardy to think otherwise.”
Constable Marley bristled at the word “foolhardy” and made a sweeping gesture with his arms. “Matters not. You are in the way. Out you go, both of you. Reyer and I have work to do.”
And then, as if wishing to appear benevolent, he added, “I will let you know as soon as we have solved this case.”
* * *
“I would like to go back, miss,” Betty said as they marched up the hill to Allenton Park. “Back to Risely Hall.”
They had just parted company with a very disgruntled Mr. Fraser, who had chuntered most of the way back through the town. Still, he had pulled himself out of his temper long enough to bow elegantly to both Sophia and Betty as they said goodbye. And now Betty had quickened her pace as they neared Allenton Park and forced Sophia into a brisk walk—nearly a trot.
She frowned, glancing at the girl. More than a little disheveled, Betty’s dress was smeared with dirt, and blood edged the hem of her skirt. But more concerning was the fearful look on the maid’s face.
“Please, miss. I’ll take a stage. There’ll be no need to inconvenience anyone. I would just rather not be at a place that has a murderer running around, killing willy-nilly.”
“Not willy-nilly, Betty,” Sophia said, despite knowing that her words were not in the least helpful. “There is a purpose behind these killings; they all tie together in some way. I just haven’t figured out how as yet. But I will. It’s only a matter of time.”
Sophia tried to instill her words with confidence and reassurance, but even she could hear the skeptical tone. “I know you’re upset; it’s not surprising. I would suggest that you either rest the remainder of the day, or throw yourself into some labor-intense work so that you don’t have a chance to dwell on it. Put what you’ve seen today out of your mind, if you can. If you still wish to go back to Welford Mills in a couple of days, I’ll make the arrangements.”
Sophia had no idea how she would do so, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it.
There was a carriage waiting by the open front door as they approached Allenton. It was not overly large, and with only two horses and no driver, it was clear that the passengers had not come any great distance. The diminutive figure of Marty Sneed, the new boot boy, held the horses in place, yawning with boredom.
Skipping around the vehicle, barely giving it a glance, Betty almost crossed the threshold into Allenton ahead of Sophia, but Benton stopped her with a look that could have curdled cream. When Sophia nodded for Betty to go ahead, the girl lifted her cheeks in an attempted smile. Her complexion was mottled white and red, her hair hung in bedraggled clumps from where she’d been pulling at it, and her expression was that of a traumatized young woman. In short, she looked rather ghastly, and Sophia felt terrible about having dragged the poor girl through such an afternoon.
Sophia knew by the heat on her cheeks that her color was high as well, but her hands no longer trembled and her steps were sure as ever. She had weathered a terrible storm and kept a level head. There was hope that she would find her footing as a Bow Street Investigator, after all.
“Miss Dewey and the reverend are in the drawing room, Miss Thompson,” Benton said, still holding the door. “With Mr. and Mrs. Waverley.”
Sophia looked back at Benton with surprise. “Uncle is downstairs?”
“Yes, miss. Insisted on it. Wouldn’t stand for any more mollycoddling.” Benton allowed the corner of his mouth to curl up, and Sophia was fairly certain that the words originated from Uncle Edward.
“Indeed, no mollycoddling,” Sophia said with a straight face.
While not enamored with the idea of spending time with the Deweys, Sophia thought that she might check to see that her aunt and uncle did not require a distraction. Placing her bonnet and gloves on one of the front hall chairs, she made her way to the drawing room and tapped on the door before entering.
The large room was not crowded, as neither Daphne nor William had joined their parents to play host to Reverend Dewey and his daughter. At the far end by the wide French doors, Aunt Hazel stood behind Uncle Edward’s chair, while Charlotte and her father sat across from them on the velvet settee. Coats and bonnets had not been left with Benton, indicating it was not going to be a long visit.
They all looked up and watched Sophia as she crossed the floor to join them. She was greeted with enthusiasm. Aunt Hazel was particularly effusive.
“There she is. I told you, Charlotte, that you had no need to be concerned.” Aunt Hazel stepped away from Uncle Edward’s wingback chair and turned to Sophia, taking both her hands in her own. “Just out and about wandering the garden, as I surmised.”
Aunt Hazel squeezed Sophia’s fingers before dropping her hands and bobbed her eyebrows as if trying to relay a message.
Flummoxed, Sophia merely nodded—it was the safest response.
“Oh, I am so pleased to see that you’re well, Miss Thompson.
The gossipmongers can be so cruel.” Charlotte rose and stepped closer. She wore a soft pink carriage gown with a ruffled neckline and pleated skirts. Charlotte’s father, standing near the mantel, wore the usual attire of a clergyman, as drab and dreary as his expression. He greeted Sophia with a formal nod, dipping his mop of unruly gray hair.
After acknowledging the greetings, Sophia turned back to Charlotte. “Gossip … about me?” She had a feeling that this conversation was not going to go well.
“Oh dear, you didn’t know,” Charlotte said with a worried frown. “I’m so terribly sorry to be the harbinger of such uncomfortable news.” She glanced at her father as if needing reassurance. “They say—they being the gossips—that Bertha Tumbler was murdered and that you were there. A witness.”
Sophia ignored Aunt Hazel’s look of warning and turned to address Charlotte. “Gossip is rarely right and this is a case in point. I arrived at Bertha Tumbler’s cottage well after the incident. I most definitely was not present when she was murdered. What a cruel suggestion.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m so glad,” she said with obvious relief. “I was quite horrified on your behalf. I did not mean to suggest that there was something improper in your behavior, not at all. I thought that you might have seen something important and raced after the killer. I can see you doing something like that. There’s a heroic flair to your character.”
Sophia snorted, thinking about her pounding heart as she glanced around Bertha’s cottage, praying the killer had taken his leave. “Nothing heroic about happening upon a murder scene,” she said, deciding an abridged version of the day’s events might satisfy everyone’s curiosity—one without drama and unpleasant details.
“The rumor mill was wrong but not by much. I discovered Bertha Tumbler’s body when I went to call. I had Betty run for the constable.” She neglected to mention Jeremy’s presence, as it might not sit well with her uncle. He was not pleased with the Runner investigating anything other than Andrew’s murder. He, like many others, did not believe the incidents were connected.
Aunt Hazel looked troubled. “So, it’s true then. Bertha Tumbler was murdered.” She paused for a moment, her eyes focused inward. “Is there any chance it was an accident?”
Sophia shook her head, trying not to think of Bertha’s slit throat. “I’m afraid not.”
“Time to change the topic,” Aunt Hazel suggested, likely seeing Sophia’s suddenly nauseated expression. She slid behind Uncle Edward’s chair once more. “The country fair, perhaps. Are you going to have a booth for the church at the next fair, Reverend?”
As the conversation veered away from the sensational to the banal, Charlotte crossed the room and secured Sophia’s attention with a touch on her arm. They sauntered to the windows as Sophia pointed out the buds of the asters; purples and pinks preparing to bloom in profusion.
Seated on the window seat, Sophia could see into the room and watch for any signs of distress in her kin. Sophia thought that all was well, for a few minutes. A very few minutes, as she soon learned.
“Sophia, I’m scared,” Charlotte said, wide-eyed. “This flood of unexplained deaths in West Ravenwood. West Ravenwood of all places! And now, an ordinary woman slain in her kitchen. There’s no telling who’ll be next. There’s no rhyme or reason. Are we all in danger, or just those in league with the Waverleys?”
Sophia snorted a laugh as if Charlotte were making a joke. In league, indeed. It sounded like the Waverleys were a satanic cult or a criminal gang, not a family of the upper crust.
“No, indeed. Not everyone is in danger. If I were to hazard a guess, which is all we can do at this stage, I would say that there is a rhyme and reason; we just have not figured it out yet. And I believe the family association is significant.”
And then … Sophia tried to remember if she had ever specifically mentioned that Bertha had been killed in her kitchen. Though she supposed the town gossips could have spread that rumor; it was not hard to guess, as a cottage was usually more kitchen than anything else …
“Really?” Charlotte replied. “Andrew thinks that it’s all nonsense, that the murders have nothing to do with us … you … the family. Other than his brother’s killing, of course.”
Sophia frowned at Charlotte, wondering if she realized her mistake. “You said Andrew … do you mean William? That William calls it nonsense? And when you speak of the family, are you referring to the Waverleys?”
“Did I say Andrew? I meant William, of course. I’m so glad that he wasn’t here to hear my slip. He would have been terribly hurt.”
“Do you still think of Andrew?” Sophia asked gently, trying to understand how close the pair had been before her cousin’s death. Perhaps not a sociably acceptable question, but Sophia could hardly ignore the opportunity.
“No, not anymore. I had become close to Andrew, without a doubt. I thought of him with great affection before he died. But he was devious in his attentions—hid them from his family … and others. William, on the other hand, has a quieter charm than Andrew, an easier manner.” She giggled girlishly. “I did not realize how different the brothers were or how much more suited William was to the role of his father’s heir until after Andrew’s death. It was Mrs. Curtis who pointed out William’s stellar qualities.”
“Mrs. Curtis?”
“Yes, the family was so terribly distraught about the murder that I visited regularly to offer what comfort I could. It was a difficult time, as you can imagine.” She smiled wistfully and breathed out slowly in a sad sigh. “Difficult for us all. I was devastated. My mother did not understand how I felt—she had not seen how close Andrew and I had become. But Mrs. Curtis had. One day, as I was taking my leave, I sat in one of the seats of the entrance hall, exhausted from all the emotions … and Mrs. Curtis sat in the chair next to me. She asked if she could do anything to help. We talked for hours and she helped me find perspective, helped me stay strong. I used that strength to aid Mrs. Waverley and William in their hour of need.”
“That’s amazing,” Sophia said, ignoring the drama of her words. “And William? How does he fit into all this?”
Charlotte tittered a laugh, soft and musical. “Mrs. Curtis talked about how much William was like Andrew, but a gentler version. She encouraged me to look deeper. And the more I got to know William, the more I realized that our personalities were more suited to each other. I saw that Mrs. Curtis was right: Andrew was not my match, William is. And unlike Andrew, William does not want to look higher for a wife. He sees no gap in our social positions.”
“Well, that does explain a few things,” Sophia said, more comfortable with Charlotte than she had been thus far. “I’ve seen you and Mrs. Curtis chatting quite amiably several times. As to William … well, I can understand the attraction there.”
“Not unlike you and Mr. Fraser.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Charlotte leaned forward, putting her hand lightly on Sophia’s arm. “I’ve noticed the way he looks at you and … I’ve noticed you looking back.”
“Nonsense,” Sophia said, but with no heat. “He thinks of me as a colleague, nothing else. Certainly not in a romantic sense, which is what I assume you’re getting at.”
“There is nothing that says Mr. Fraser cannot be both a colleague and an admirer.”
Sophia frowned. “It would get in the way.”
She didn’t like the way her heart accelerated at Charlotte’s suggestion, nor the sudden vision of Jeremy’s intense stare and the way it made her feel invincible.
“In. The. Way,” she repeated, more to establish the thought in her mind than to convince Charlotte.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
An Arresting Development
As Sophia waved the Dewey carriage away, her eyes lifted to an approaching figure. Someone was hastening up the drive. She recognized his bearing and his brisk manner of walking immediately.
Jeremy bowed and doffed his hat as the carriage passed on its way to the gate, and Sophia w
atched Charlotte’s arm stretch out of the window with a casual wave.
Rushing across the flat stones, Sophia met Jeremy at the first step. He was rather frazzled, and paid no heed to social niceties. He did not ask after the family, her health, or comment about the weather or compliment her looks. It was clearly a time of urgency.
“They found a note,” he said without preamble. “From Mr. Tumbler to his sister. He tells all—accuses his sister of poisoning Stacks and blames her for forcing him to take justice into his hands.”
Sophia stared at Jeremy, trying to understand. “That makes no sense,” she said eventually. She continued to stare as his anxious expression cleared, replaced by a grin … a grin?
“I quite agree, no sense at all,” he said. “What killer would warn his victim? Mr. Tumbler would not warn Bertha that he was going to kill her—”
“And to put it in writing would be foolhardy in the extreme. Anyone could get ahold of the note and use it as evidence against him.”
“Anyone—such as a daft constable.”
“Exactly, such as Constable Marley. Besides, if Bertha had received such a letter, she would have sought protection or gone into hiding. Even if she thought her brother to be full of bluster, she would not have gone about her day as usual, chopping herbs. She would not have let him in the door, either, if he threatened her. Nothing was disturbed in her cottage. He wasn’t there!”
“We don’t know that as a certainty.”
“If someone threatened you, would you let them into your house?”
