by Cindy Anstey
“No, of course not.”
“Exactly.”
“And the wording…” Jeremy reached into his jacket and pulled out his journal. “I had to write it down.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “Marley would not let me have the letter to study. I copied it in its entirety: Dear Bertha, sister of mine,” he read aloud. “I don’t know why you killed Mr. Stacks but you ought not to have done so. He were a good person just doing his job. He did not know it were you who killed Mr. Andrew Waverley. Stacks had not figured it out yet. I can’t have you going about killing people as you see fit. You have forced me to be the hand of justice.
Your brother, Harvey Tumbler.”
Sophia snickered as Jeremy got to the end of the note, then she clamped a hand over her mouth. “I apologize, that was insensitive … But really? Your brother, Harvey Tumbler?” Sophia erupted into a giggle. “First name and last name and relationship? Who talks like that to a sister? It’s almost as ridiculous as addressing the letter to sister of mine.”
“It is a fraud, of course. A fake note. And it cleverly lays the blame of both Andrew’s and Stacks’ murders on Bertha. Who is now dead and cannot defend herself,” Jeremy said, glancing behind her at the manor. He nodded, acknowledging whoever was standing at the door. “We are under scrutiny, Miss Thompson. Shall we go for a stroll?”
He offered her his elbow and led her toward the side garden at a relaxed pace.
They sauntered with shoulders back, taking light steps and remaining silent for some minutes as they tried to exude a sense of fellowship and comradery—not the aura of sleuthing partners. Following the path, they wove between the flower beds, and finally feeling comfortable, they continued their conversation.
“Where was the letter found?” Sophia asked, still watching the path ahead. It was likely the letter that Sophia had found and then returned without reading.
“In the shed attached to Bertha’s cottage—a storeroom of sorts. It was tucked under a snare.”
Oh dear, it was that letter. She would have to learn to ignore decorum and manners, plunge ahead and get all the answers … even if it meant engaging in some discourteous behavior such as reading someone’s letter. “Under a poacher’s snare?”
“Likely, but we cannot be certain.”
“You like to deal in certainties, Mr. Fraser?”
“Yes, most times. Don’t you?”
“Actually, now that you ask, I do as well. So, let me say this: I’m certain that Bertha, having received a threatening note from her brother, would not have folded it and placed it with her traps. In a pocket, perhaps, or tossed it in the trash. But she would not have stepped into her storeroom and tucked it neatly behind a snare.”
“You could certainly be right,” Jeremy said with a smile in his voice.
She did not look at him directly, as there was a distinct possibility that he might see how much she was enjoying their conversation and his company … and it was an inappropriate time to make such a discovery. “So, this note was meant to sidetrack the investigators,” she observed.
“Exactly as it has done with Constable Marley.”
Sophia glanced skyward, knowing that Jeremy would not lead her into a shrub as they walked. She considered the many possibilities of the note. “It was rather foolish, wasn’t it?”
“To leave the note? Indeed.”
“Mr. Fraser?” Sophia asked as she watched the wheeling starlings. “Would a blacksmith use the words ‘hand of justice’?”
“That, my dear Miss Thompson, is not the question.”
“It’s not?”
“No, I think we should find out if Harvey Tumbler, blacksmith of West Ravenwood, can even write at all.”
Sophia jerked her head up. “Yes, of course,” she agreed. “And if by an odd happenstance he can write—for that would have required schooling of some sort—we should get a sample of said handwriting and compare it to the note. Better still, we could dictate the letter to him while he writes it down. We could compare the two directly.” Then with a toss of her head, Sophia huffed. “It will be hard to do without the note in hand … to compare them, I mean.”
Jeremy nodded, but he did not look downcast. “If need be, I can go to the justice and ask that he intervene with Constable Marley.” He pointed to his chest. “I’ll soon be a Bow Street Runner, you know.”
Sophia laughed, feeling very pleased with her career choice and Jeremy’s company. One day she would say the same thing, and her words would be instilled with just as much pride.
* * *
The next morning, Jeremy rose at his customary time, performed his customary ablutions, and dressed in his customary suit of grays. However, when he stepped down onto the floor of the common room of the inn, it was oddly full. Every table, every seat, and every corner of the room was occupied. And the patrons did not look happy—at least not with Jeremy. A murmur began the moment Jeremy entered the room, and it grew louder as he searched for a place to sit, but there was no empty seat to be found.
“Up!” Mr. Pettigrew, the innkeeper of the Unicorn and Crown, shouted. “You’re not helping matters.” He pointed at a scruffy young man with a long nose and arched back, and then glanced at Jeremy, jerking his head toward the now empty chair.
Jeremy sat and was about to order his breakfast when a laden plate was plopped on the table in front of him with a resounding thud. Jeremy frowned at the greasy sausages and fried tomatoes, egg yolk spilling over the entire plate.
“I didn’t order yet.”
“You won’t find him. These here blokes are going to make sure ya don’t.” Mr. Pettigrew waved his arms about and then put his hands on his hips. He stood akimbo and loomed over the table.
“Find who?” Jeremy asked, confused by the hostility and the warning.
“Mr. Tumbler, of course.”
Jeremy lifted his knife, stared at the messy plate, and put it down again. The room was suddenly quiet—the heavy silence of anticipation—as they waited for him to speak.
“Why would I be looking for Mr. Tumbler?”
“We know you’re going to arrest Mr. Tumbler for his sister’s murder, just as we know he didn’t do it.”
“I beg your pardon,” Jeremy said, clearing his throat in order to speak louder—pushing his words into the ears of everyone in the room. “But I have no plans to arrest anyone. I’m still investigating. And if Mr. Tumbler didn’t kill his sister, he should step forward and say so.”
A few whispers drifted through the air, but Jeremy could tell that he was not going to win them over anytime soon. His youth and inexperience were fighting against him. “Why, Mr. Pettigrew, do you believe I’m going to arrest Mr. Tumbler?”
“It’s all through town. Ask anyone.”
Jeremy pushed back in his chair, no longer interested in eating. “Really? All through town?”
While there was never any doubt that gossip spread at lightning speed, an imminent arrest should not have been part of it. Bertha Tumbler’s death was one thing; who the police suspected was quite another. Someone had been talking a little too easily.
Someone who should have known better.
Jeremy stood and marched to the door, joined by a dozen or so townsmen. They jostled one another as they crossed the threshold ahead of him and then stood waiting on the street until Jeremy stepped out.
“I’m going to The Pins and Needles,” he said to the nearest man. The name of the haberdashery rippled through the crowd.
Stepping past them, Jeremy gained the high street well ahead of the group. His long strides continued to increase the distance until he arrived at the haberdashery with the others trailing some fifty feet behind. It allowed Jeremy to burst through the door with the authority of a Bow Street Runner and not that of an unruly crowd.
“Mr. Fraser,” a voice greeted him with surprise and pleasure. “I thought I might see you today.”
It wasn’t Constable Marley, but a young lady who invariably lifted his spirits. Sophia Thompson tipped her head in a small bow and dr
ew him to the back of the store. “Constable Marley has yet to come in,” she said in a soft near whisper, her breath caressing his cheek. “I assume you’re here to convince him that arresting Mr. Tumbler is a mistake—my same purpose.”
“Indeed, that would be a grave mistake. Though the damage might already have been done, Miss Thompson. Mr. Tumbler has been warned and gone into hiding. Speaking of which—” Jeremy frowned. He looked down the aisle past Sophia and then toward the office. While they were not alone in the store, it was clear that Sophia had no companion. “Where is your maid, Miss Thompson?”
“Betty?” she asked and then continued at his nod. “The poor girl was terribly distraught yesterday. One can hardly blame her really; Bertha Tumbler’s body was a ghastly sight and it was a shock to the system. But she is feeling better today—says that keeping busy helps. But … well, she wasn’t inclined to accompany me this morning, and I didn’t want to delay.”
“It is not safe or seemly to wander about on your own, Miss Thompson. Had you requested it of me, I could have come to Allenton Park to act as escort.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. Fraser,” Sophia said with a shrug. “But I thought it imperative to speak to Constable Marley, convince him to not arrest Mr. Tumbler, but merely speak with him. I might have known that you would have thought the same and had the situation under control.” She smiled and nodded, agreeing with herself. “I also thought this might be an opportunity to ask Mr. Tumbler questions about his sister. If he knew any of her customers—particularly to whom she sold the wolfsbane.”
“My thoughts exactly, Miss Thompson. And if she had a ledger of any sort—pardon?”
“Not likely. Possession of a ledger would have required mathematical skills as well as the ability to write. The letter in her storeroom was left by the killer; we still don’t know if Bertha could read or write … and now we can’t ask Mr. Tumbler.”
“She did label her plants; that must tell us something.”
“True enough,” Sophia agreed.
“Hello, hello,” Constable Marley said. He had come in quietly behind them and tapped Jeremy on the shoulder, causing the Runner to spin around in surprise. “What are you doing here, Detective Fraser?” the constable asked, sporting an uncharacteristic grin. “Did you hear that I’ve solved the case? Have you come to congratulate me?”
“No, indeed not. Congratulations are not in order as yet,” Jeremy said, trying not to sound disagreeable.
Sophia followed the constable into his small office. Jeremy stood at the door.
“Everyone is talking about Mr. Tumbler, Constable. The whole town is talking,” she said. Disapproval frosted her words.
Oblivious, the constable laughed. “Yes, I might have been a tad talkative on my way home yesterday. I was so pleased to have solved the case. Mentioned it to Mrs. Collins in the bank and Mr. Learner when I passed the church. Oh, and then Ella at the bakery and … It’s not to be wondered at; this case has been hanging over me for near on a year since Andrew Waverley was killed. Can hardly blame me for being excited.”
He laughed again, not realizing that his jovial demeanor was extremely insensitive. Instead, he dropped down onto the chair behind his desk and leaned back, relaxed and cocksure.
“That was ill-advised, Constable Marley,” Jeremy said, clipping his words with anger. “As well as indiscreet. You won’t find him now, he’s gone to ground.”
“Proves his guilt then, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t run if he were innocent.”
“He wouldn’t be the first.”
“Speakin’ from your years of experience, are you?” Marley sputtered his lips, mocking.
“It’s not surprising that he’s gone into hiding,” Jeremy said. “Tumbler likely doesn’t trust the system. One could hardly blame him; the record is rather spotty.”
“The record? Bow Street making mistakes, now, are they?”
“I was speaking of all law enforcement,” Jeremy said with his chin lifted. “Training has become a requirement in London but in the counties—well…” Jeremy’s voice trailed off as he waited for Marley to jump in and admit to his lack of training. But the constable remained silent, a mulish expression on his face.
“Aren’t we lucky,” Marley said eventually, “to have one of those distinguished and educated Bow Street gents in our midst.” His expression was not at all pleased. “What makes you think Tumbler is not at his forge? I’ve yet to pay him a visit.”
Jeremy flashed a frown and then glanced at Sophia.
“I’m afraid your exuberance and enthusiasm about an imminent arrest has flown through town, Mr. Marley,” Sophia said. “You ought not to have been so cavalier with your conversations. Even Allenton Park was all atwitter with gossip of Tumbler and why he’s disappeared.”
“Constable Marley, Miss Thompson. Constable. Not Mister—”
“I was met by a crowd at the inn,” Jeremy said, interrupting Marley’s snit. “And they followed me here.”
“Oh, so that’s why I have a gathering of persons in front of my store.” He leaned toward a saleslady standing by the door. “Mrs. Nesbitt, would you kindly ask the men on the street to make way for my customers? Better still, send them back to the pub.”
There was no reply from Mrs. Nesbitt, but the floor tapped with the sound of heels and the front door squeaked as it opened.
Jeremy leaned on the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. “They don’t believe Mr. Tumbler to be guilty and will not allow you to arrest him.”
“What they believe is irrelevant, Mr. Fraser. I am going to arrest Mr. Tumbler. The note that we found at his sister’s place is clear evidence that he did her in.”
“But the letter was planted by the killer,” Sophia said, her voice full of indignation. “Or rather,” she added with less force. “It seems likely the letter was planted by the killer.”
Constable Marley chuckled, clearly not convinced. “Now why would the killer do that?”
“To divert the investigation,” Sophia insisted. “Lead us in the wrong direction. Force the arrest of an innocent man. There are many possibilities.”
“Yup, an’ the best bein’ that he done her in.”
“But that doesn’t make sense!”
“Desperate to be right, are you, Miss Thompson? You wouldn’t be listening to this here fella, taking your lessons from him, now would you? Mr. Newly Minted Detective has a lot to learn.”
“Not as much as you think, Constable.” Jeremy straightened, now blocking the doorway. “I know enough not to talk about an upcoming arrest to all and sundry. You’ve encouraged Tumbler to go into hiding and he won’t be interested in answering any questions even if you do track him down.”
“Perhaps, but I’ll run him to ground, don’t you worry. I know how to do my job. And you can run back to London. Tell the Bow Street Runners that you were outwitted by a town constable.” He laughed again, but there was nothing jovial about the sound. It was mocking and full of contempt.
Jeremy gestured to Sophia, moving out of the way to allow her to pass. “I’m not returning to London until the job is complete—until the murderer is found and incarcerated,” he said over his shoulder. “It is most unfortunate that your incompetence has lengthened the process. But not to worry: I will, indeed, speak to the Bow Street Runners about the West Ravenwood constable. But you will not be pleased with the description.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Deep, Dark Abyss
“Right there,” Mrs. Curtis said, waving her hand in such a way that it took in three shelves.
“Where?” Sophia asked, feeling stupid and frustrated.
She had made a point of asking Mrs. Curtis about a book on poisons two days earlier, only to have her request dismissed with a casual gesture toward the library. It had taken several more petitions before the housekeeper realized that Sophia needed Mrs. Curtis to show her exactly where the books were located. With a snort of impatience, Mrs. Curtis had dropped the flowers into the vase that she h
ad been arranging on the dining room table and marched through the door and down the hall.
Once in the library, Mrs. Curtis had stepped to the right of the fireplace and waved toward the shelves. Upon Sophia’s question, Mrs. Curtis reached over to the middle shelf and took down two books. She dropped them in Sophia’s outstretched arms and walked back out the door without another word.
Two books! Sophia pivoted looking at the overflowing shelves that covered the walls of the entire room. Two! Among hundreds. It was no wonder she could not find them.
“Thank you,” Sophia called as she dropped onto the settee.
One book was of no use; it was elementary in its approach to poisons. It offered the Latin names of various plants and described reactions as mild, medium, and severe, giving no symptoms or antidotes. With no illustration of the flower or the seeds, the book was all but useless. Sophia tossed it onto the cushion beside her.
The second book, however, was exactly what Sophia was looking for.
She found monkshood in the index where it was referred to as wolfsbane, leopard’s-bane, mousebane, women’s bane, devil’s helmet, and queen of poisons. Better still, the article about monkshood was boxed in a bright red border with a skull and crossbones in the corner. There was no doubting its lethal nature.
The illustration showed the monkshood to be a lovely ethereal plant with blue or purple flowers. The leaves looked similar to the shriveled greenery in Bertha’s jar, and the notation about poison indicated that it was lethal. It affected the heart and the nerves in minutes to even hours after swallowing. The symptoms included numbness, nausea, and abdominal pain.
Sophia sat back, staring into space above the book. She nodded to herself. This sounded very much like the description of Stacks’ last minutes. This information would be of great use to Jeremy. She was just thinking she would send him a note when a soft knock on the door produced one of the housemaids, who informed her it was time to dress for dinner.
With a glance at the clock on the mantel and a huff of impatience, Sophia assured the girl that she would do so. Sophia knew Betty would be waiting—having recovered, for the most part, from the ordeal of Bertha Tumbler’s death.
