Page 14 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)

CHAPTER 12

B arnaby, Stokes, and Henry, as well as O’Donnell, Morgan, and Price, were waiting impatiently at Lavender Cottage when Penelope and Madeline arrived.

The group gathered about the small dining table, and before any of the men could voice a question, Penelope fixed her gaze on Barnaby and Stokes and demanded, “What did you learn?”

Stokes met Barnaby’s questioning glance and nodded for him to oblige.

After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, for the benefit of Henry and the other men, Barnaby reported, “Reverend Foswell confirms he encountered Monty on the Tollard Royal-Ashmore lane at about two-thirty. Consequently, Monty’s story, including him finding Viola dead at one-thirty, appears sound. Next, while walking along the stone wall that forms the boundary between Lavender and Penrose Cottages, Stokes and I came upon an old stile providing a ready route between the two kitchen gardens, and notably, the stile is screened by bushes and trees from general view. In softer ground before the stile, we found imprints of a shoe, not a man’s boot, going both ways—to Lavender Cottage and back to Penrose Cottage.”

“Ah.” Penelope nodded. “I was wondering how she managed to get back and forth so quickly and without being seen by anyone.”

Henry added, “I’ve been out with Morgan and O’Donnell and took measurements of the shoe print. Highly unlikely to be a man’s.”

Penelope looked eagerly at Barnaby, and he went on, “Stokes and I questioned Jim Swinson about whether he recalled Viola having anything in her hand when she was upbraiding Henry over his dog, and Jim recalled her holding something like a letter. More, after Henry rode off, Jim saw Viola put the letter into her tapestry bag, and given Ida was standing beside Jim at the time, he believes she saw that as well.”

“That explains why the bag was searched and who by.” Penelope slotted that puzzle piece into the picture of the murder that was forming in her mind.

“Also,” Stokes said, glancing at Morgan and Price, who were standing by the wall, “Morgan and Price spoke with Mrs. Gilroy, and she says she left a pork pie for Viola’s lunch that day.” Stokes looked at Penelope. “Any chance of a dusting of flour off a pork pie?”

Penelope smiled. “None.”

“You might get a flake or two of pastry,” Madeline said, “but nothing that could be confused with a dusting of flour.”

“Ergo,” Penelope concluded, “the dusting of flour came from the murderer.”

“One more point,” Stokes said. “Morgan and Price thought to confirm that in finding the body, Mrs. Gilroy hadn’t touched the clock. She didn’t, and she didn’t see what time it was showing, either. She says she screeched, then pulled the pot off the stove and ran next door via the front gate and the lane. Apparently, she didn’t know about the stile and didn’t use it.”

“So the shoe prints aren’t hers,” Penelope stated.

“No,” Stokes agreed. “But regarding the clock, after Mrs. Gilroy left the cottage, other than Price, no one came into the parlor until Carter, who moved the clock when he examined the scene. Since then, the clock’s been sitting on the mantelpiece, untouched and unnoticed by anyone but us.”

Price cleared his throat and offered, “I’ve asked around the village, and no one has been gossiping about the exact time of death, just that it was sometime in the afternoon between Mrs. Gilroy leaving and Miss Viola going up to and returning from the church and his lordship calling at four-thirty. That’s all anyone knows. Seems no one’s heard about the broken clock or what time the hands showed.”

Stokes looked quietly delighted.

“Good work.” Barnaby nodded at Price. “A solid bit of thinking. If no other villagers are aware of it, it seems likely that only the murderer knows what time was shown on the broken clock.” Barnaby looked at Stokes and returned his smile. “That’s one card we can keep up our sleeve—one we definitely won’t play.”

Stokes inclined his head. “Unless and until the time is right.” He shifted his gaze to Penelope and Madeline. “Now you’ve wrung all our news from us, what did you learn from the gossips?”

Penelope took a moment to order her recollections, then commenced, “First, from Mrs. Foswell’s observations, when Viola left the church and headed back through the village, Viola’s attitude was one of focused determination. Viola told Mrs. Foswell that she couldn’t dally and chat because she had an errand to complete before returning to Lavender Cottage, where she was expecting a visitor.”

Stokes looked eager. “Dare I hope this errand was to Penrose Cottage?”

Penelope’s lips curved. “Don’t leap ahead. We’ll get to the errand in due course.”

“I take it the visitor was Pincer,” Henry said.

“Viola didn’t say,” Madeline replied, “but as she promised to tell Mrs. Foswell all the next day, I suspect it was. The time certainly fits.”

Penelope resumed her report. “After Mrs. Foswell, we spoke with Iris Perkins, and she confirmed seeing Viola go to the church at a little after twelve, then return through the junction at about twelve-thirty.” She looked at Stokes and Barnaby. “From Iris’s veranda, where she was sitting, she has an unobstructed view of the junction, but she can’t see farther along Green Lane.” She paused, then went on, “Iris saw Viola enter the junction and turn toward Green Lane, but then she stopped, opened her tapestry bag, and drew out a folded paper. Iris thought it looked like some official document, as she thinks it had a seal.”

Henry stated, “A solicitor’s letter should have been sealed.”

Penelope nodded. “Iris saw Viola clutch the letter in her hand and determinedly march on down Green Lane.”

“Iris didn’t see anything more, but she told us Gladys Hooper had,” Madeline said, “so we went on to the Hoopers’ cottage.”

“And Gladys was quite ready to tell us all,” Penelope said. “Namely, that she had been visiting her old aunt, who lives farther out along Green Lane, and had been returning to share a light luncheon with Iris when she saw Viola marching toward her with a paper in her hand. Viola and Gladys exchanged waves, and then Viola turned in at the gate of Penrose Cottage.”

Penelope smiled as, their expressions eager, all the men leaned forward, then Barnaby impatiently waved at her to continue, and she went on, “Gladys is an accomplished gossip, and she scurried to a spot along the fence outside Penrose Cottage where, unseen, she could hear the words exchanged when Viola knocked on the door and Ida opened it.” She paused for breath, and the anticipation about the table palpably rose, then she related all that Gladys had overheard and also seen.

“Gladys saw the letter in Ida’s hand?” Stokes asked.

Penelope nodded. “And she also saw Viola leave soon after, and she didn’t have the letter with her then, or at least Gladys didn’t notice it.”

“If Ida had taken the letter into her hands, Viola wouldn’t have taken it back,” Barnaby said. “Not if she could help it.”

“And as it was addressed to Arthur,” Penelope pointed out, “Ida wouldn’t have refused to take it for him. By all accounts, Ida is Arthur’s protector. He gets on with doing what he loves while she deals with the world on his behalf.”

They pondered that, then Penelope concluded, “Gladys stopped at the corner and looked back and saw Viola come out of the Penroses’ gate and go in at Lavender Cottage.” Penelope paused, then smiled and added, “And Gladys’s last tidbit of information was that Ida served them freshly baked scones for afternoon tea.”

When the men blinked at her, Penelope explained, “Scone dough is made with flour.”

She sat back and thought things through, then summarized, “That’s the entirety of our information. While we still have nothing that conclusively proves, beyond all question, that Ida Penrose strangled Viola to death, all the facts we’ve assembled inescapably point to that.”

Barnaby and Stokes shared a long look, then Stokes softly grunted. “We’re going to have to chance our hand and arrest her and hope that on the balance of the evidence, she’ll be convicted.”

Barnaby turned to Henry. “What do you think?”

Henry had clearly been weighing up their arguments. He grimaced. “It’s hard to distance myself from this case…” He glanced at Madeline, then returned his gaze to Stokes. “However, I believe that on the balance of probabilities, you would get a conviction. Aside from all else, the question arises of who else could have done the deed. From Carter’s evidence, we know that the murderer was someone Viola knew, making the pool of suspects small, and virtually all except Ida Penrose are accounted for.”

“And,” Penelope put in, “don’t forget the timing. Gladys saw Viola go in through the Lavender Cottage gate at a minute or so before twelve-forty, and by one-thirty, Viola was dead and the murderer gone. It’s difficult to construct any scenario whereby, within that fifty-minute period, someone else came into the cottage, killed Viola, and left the property without encountering Monty coming in from the rear or being seen by anyone in the village.”

“Indeed,” Henry said. “And then there’s the matter of the solicitor’s letters. They haven’t been found, and the only persons with a motive for taking and burning them are Arthur and Ida Penrose.”

“And,” Penelope went on, “we know it wasn’t Arthur because he spent all the afternoon with Jim Swinson in the orchard.”

“The very orchard,” Barnaby said, “that was the subject of the solicitor’s letters.” He looked at Stokes, as did everyone else.

Stokes had been staring at the table, listening to all that was said. Now, he raised his gaze and looked around the gathering, then nodded and straightened in his chair. “So we chance our hand and see what happens. I can’t see that we’ve anything left to ferret out, no further information we might acquire to strengthen our case.”

Penelope nodded, too. “We’re in possession of all the facts we’re likely to learn.” She met Stokes’s gaze and grimaced. “Like you, I imagine those solicitor’s letters are cold ash by now.”

Stokes humphed. “She wouldn’t have kept them. She’s made few mistakes thus far.” He drew out his timepiece and consulted it, then tucked it away. “It’s close to one o’clock. We should wait until after lunchtime to have the best chance of finding her alone.” He glanced toward the kitchen, then cocked a brow at Madeline. “Is there anything we could eat while we wait?”

Madeline laughed, then shook her head and rose. She went into the kitchen, peered into the bread bin, then looked at the others. “I think we can manage sandwiches.”

Everyone smiled, and O’Donnell, Morgan, and Price leapt to help.

They set out for Penrose Cottage at a few minutes before two o’clock. Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope led the way, with Henry and Madeline following and O’Donnell, Morgan, and Price bringing up the rear.

Penelope remained behind Stokes as he went out of the Lavender Cottage gate, along the lane, then turned in at the gate of Penrose Cottage. Over the sandwiches, they’d come up with a possible way to trick Ida into showing her true colors and incriminating herself. That would give them the clearest, neatest, least challengeable outcome. Whether their gambit would work was another matter.

As she trailed Stokes up the severely neat, rigidly straight path, Penelope drew in a settling breath and prepared herself for an interview that she expected to be akin to a mental chess game.

Stokes halted before the door, raised his fist, and knocked, quite loudly.

They waited.

When no footsteps approached and the door remained firmly shut, Stokes glanced at Barnaby and Penelope, then he faced the door and knocked again, rather more peremptorily.

Standing on and about the stoop, they waited again.

When no one came, Henry said, “I’ll take a look around the back.”

“I’ll go, too.” O’Donnell set off, shadowing Henry around the side of the house.

A minute later, Henry returned. “They’re in the orchard—Ida, Arthur, and Jim.”

“Doing what?” Stokes asked.

“Ida is just standing there,” Henry reported, “watching while Jim and Arthur work at cutting down a large branch.”

Stokes glanced at the others. “Well, so be it. Fitting in a way, I suppose.”

He stepped off the stoop, and with Henry rejoining Madeline, their small procession marched around the house. On the way, they collected O’Donnell, who had remained by the rear corner of the house, watching their quarry, and proceeded down the path between the kitchen garden beds to the gate in the orchard’s waist-high stone wall.

They could see the Penroses and Jim Swinson deeper in the orchard, gathered beneath an old tree. The sound of sawing had masked any noise the group had made, and the trio had yet to register their approach.

Stokes opened the gate and stepped through, but before Penelope and Barnaby followed, Henry murmured, “It might be more appropriate if Madeline and I remain here. We’ll be close enough to see and hear what’s said, but at this distance, we won’t intrude nor be tempted to contribute.”

Stokes nodded. “Good idea. This is going to need careful handling.” He looked at Price. “Best you remain with his lordship and Miss Huntingdon.” He glanced at O’Donnell and Morgan. “You two, come with us.”

O’Donnell and Morgan looked relieved, while Price looked faintly disappointed.

Smiling slightly, Stokes held the gate open and waved Penelope through. Barnaby followed, and with O’Donnell and Morgan trailing a few paces behind, they made their way down the grassy central path.

They were within ten yards when Ida heard them. She half turned, saw them, and frowned. She didn’t alter her stance but remained with her arms folded across her chest and an unwelcoming expression on her face. “What do you lot want?”

Jim, who’d been looking at the branch Arthur had started sawing, heard her and glanced across, then Arthur noticed, stopped sawing, and after seeing who had arrived, he lowered his saw and waited.

Stokes halted two yards away, and Barnaby and Penelope flanked him. O’Donnell and Morgan did their best to be inconspicuous as they halted farther back.

Ida shifted to face the investigators. As far as Penelope could detect, no spark of emotion showed in her strong-featured face. Not even curiosity colored her dark eyes.

She didn’t repeat her question, which had bordered on a challenge, but waited, her gaze steady on Stokes, Penelope, and Barnaby. Penelope didn’t think she was imagining the slowly rising tide of hostility directed toward them. She was quite sure Ida didn’t want them there.

Calmly, Stokes nodded to her. “Mrs. Penrose.” He shifted his gaze and acknowledged the men. “Mr. Penrose, Mr. Swinson.” Then Stokes returned his gaze to Ida and calmly stated, “Ida Penrose, we’re here to arrest you for the murder of your neighbor, Viola Huntingdon.”

They’d discussed what they wouldn’t reveal, but not how they would conduct this interview, and Stokes’s unexpected declaration left even Penelope faintly stunned. The effect on the Penroses and Jim Swinson was even more marked. For an instant, all three froze, not breathing or moving in even the smallest way.

In that second, Penelope would have sworn even the light breeze stopped.

Slowly, Ida’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

Uncomprehendingly, Arthur looked at her. “Ida? What’s this?”

Stunned, Jim Swinson, too, felt moved to prompt, “Mrs. P?”

Both patently expected Ida to laugh and refute the allegation.

After an excruciating wait, a frown slowly formed on her face.

She’s working out how to manage this, Penelope thought.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ida eventually said. “It’s nonsensical to think I killed Viola. Why would I?” She raised her head, almost tossing it as she tipped her chin high. “She was a nuisance, nothing more.”

“Except,” Stokes countered, “that she’d commenced legal proceedings to reclaim the land lost from her property due to an illegal shifting of the boundary”—he glanced toward the stone wall at the side of the orchard—“between your husband’s land and hers.”

Ida’s arms, still crossed, fractionally tightened. “I don’t know anything about that. What proceedings?”

“The ones outlined in the solicitor’s letter Viola delivered into your hands on Thursday last week, a few hours before she was killed,” Stokes replied.

Ida’s tone grew a touch belligerent. “I don’t know anything about any letter.”

One of Stokes’s black brows arched. “Don’t you? That’s odd, because we have a witness who saw Viola come to your door at about twelve-thirty on the day she was killed, and this witness heard Viola ask to speak with Arthur, and when you replied that he was out in the fields, Viola handed you the letter to give to him. The letter was addressed to Arthur as owner of this property. That letter was seen in your hands.”

Stokes shifted his gaze to Arthur Penrose. “Mr. Penrose, have you received the letter—a solicitor’s letter informing you of the pending legal action over the boundary—that Viola gave your wife to deliver to you?”

Ida’s face might, just might, have paled a fraction.

Now worried and anxious as well as confused, Arthur replied, “No.” He turned to Ida and, in a pleading tone, prompted, “Ida?”

Ida’s shoulders rose in a slight hunch. Without taking her eyes from Stokes, refusing to look at her husband, she shook her head. “It was all just rubbish about taking you to court. You didn’t need to see it. I burned it.”

“But…” Arthur looked faintly appalled. “It was a legal paper. And addressed to me.”

Still without looking his way, Ida shook her head and repeated, “You didn’t need to see it. I took care of it.”

Barnaby shifted, drawing Ida’s gaze. “Did you ‘take care’ of the letter you took from Viola’s tapestry bag, the one informing Lord Glossup of the legal action? Did you burn that, too?”

Ida looked daggers at him, then sullenly repeated, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but you do.” Stokes reclaimed her attention. “Let’s go through what really happened, shall we? After Viola left the letter with you and went home, you opened the letter and read it—of course you did—and you saw red.”

Penelope took a half step forward. “You realized how serious the matter was and that Viola stood an excellent chance of taking away a good third of the orchard.” Penelope chanced her hand at guessing Ida’s principal motive. “A good third of the orchard Arthur doted on, that was his pride and joy. And you weren’t going to stand for that, were you? You’ve always been the one to make sure this place runs smoothly, that Arthur’s life runs as perfectly as possible for him, and that he has everything he wants—all that makes him happy. That’s been your purpose through all the years of your marriage—to keep Arthur happy.”

The look Ida bent on Penelope suggested that Ida thought all Penelope had said hadn’t needed to be stated. “Of course I want Arthur to be happy. He’s my husband, isn’t he? That’s what good wives do—make all the problems in married life go away.”

Her expression serious and understanding, even commiserating, Penelope nodded. “And that’s why you had to take care of this for him. Why you had to stop Viola’s action from going ahead in the only way possible.”

Ida opened her lips—apparently to agree—but caught herself and stopped, then with a glare for Penelope, Ida slammed her lips shut.

“So,” Stokes smoothly continued, “you burned the letter intended for Arthur, and then?—”

“You finished the scone dough you were halfway through making,” Penelope said, “put the dough in your cool box—which is what one does to get the fluffiest scones—and dusted off your hands and went to deal with Viola.”

From Ida’s shocked stare, it was plain to all that Penelope’s guess was entirely correct.

After shooting Penelope a faintly astonished look, Stokes carried on, “You left your cottage by the kitchen door, went to the stile between the properties, and climbed over it, leaving a shoe print in the soft ground. You went to Lavender Cottage’s kitchen door and knocked, and when Viola answered, you said you wanted to talk, and she let you in.”

Barnaby took over. “She led you through the kitchen, past the dining table, and into the parlor.”

Stokes picked up the tale. “We have no idea what words were exchanged, but when Viola refused to halt the legal action, you stepped toward her, fastened your hands about her throat, and squeezed until she was dead.”

“Incidentally,” Penelope chimed in, “while doing that, you left a light dusting of flour on Viola’s bodice. When one works with flour, as when making scones, flour invariably gets into one’s cuffs, and unless one is careful to shake it out, it tends to leave a telltale trail.”

The unexpected facts were starting to shake Ida’s confidence.

“After Viola breathed her last,” Stokes continued, his tone steady and even and laced with a certainty that was absolute, “you let her body fall to the ground. You turned away, but you remembered the letter—the letter very similar to the one she’d given you for Arthur—that you’d seen in Viola’s hand that morning, during the altercation you and Jim witnessed between Viola and Lord Glossup.”

“You’d seen Viola put that letter into her tapestry bag,” Barnaby said, his intervention again jarring Ida, forcing her to shift her gaze, “and you were worried that letter, like the one she’d given to you for Arthur, concerned the legal action over the boundary.”

“So you went looking for Viola’s tapestry bag”—Stokes’s voice took on a definite edge—“and you found it in the hall, upended it, found the letter, and took it with you as you left the cottage by the kitchen door?—”

“Passing over the stile,” Barnaby said, “and once again leaving an imprint of your shoe in the softer ground there.”

“You returned to your own kitchen”—Penelope took up the baton—“and checked that the letter was as you’d feared and fed it into your stove. Then you retrieved your scone dough and baked the scones you would later serve to Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper when they called as arranged for afternoon tea.”

Ida had been blinking, thrown off balance by the frequent shifts in interlocutor. When they fell silent, waiting to see if their rapid-fire description of what she’d done would bring them the hoped-for reward, Ida stared at them, then drew in a slow breath and glanced at Arthur and Jim.

Seeing the horrified questions in their faces, she insisted, “It’s all nonsense. Nonsense, I tell you.” Her jaw setting, she swung her attention back to the investigators and belligerently asked, “What time was this, then?”

Evenly, Stokes replied, “We know Viola was dead by one-thirty, when her body was discovered by a friend.”

This time, Ida’s blink was very slow.

That’s shaken her, Penelope thought.

She continued to stare at them as her gaze grew puzzled. Then she shook her head. “That can’t be right.”

“We’re certain it is,” Stokes countered, and the investigators and their supporting players held their breaths.

Ida’s features hardened, and she tipped up her chin. “What about the clock, then?”

Penelope slammed a lid on her jubilation. They needed Ida to go just a bit further.

Stokes suddenly looked uncertain, his confidence draining away. Almost cautiously, he asked, “What about it?”

As if Stokes’s waning assurance had fed hers, Ida confidently stated, “I heard it was broken in the struggle and showed three-thirty-three. So that’s when Viola was killed, and at that time, I was here with Iris and Gladys, having scones and tea.”

Penelope breathed more easily, and she was sure Stokes and Barnaby did the same. As if merely curious, she asked, “Indeed, you were. But how did you hear about the clock?”

Ida’s features turned impassive, and she lifted a shoulder. “Heard it from someone.”

“Who?” Stokes pressed.

Ida stared at him, her gaze growing openly malevolent, and said nothing.

“You see, Ida,” Barnaby said, “we haven’t mentioned the time shown on the face of the broken clock to anyone but those involved in the investigation, and none of us have talked of it to anyone in the village.”

“And we know for a fact that Viola was dead by one-thirty,” Penelope stated. “That is now beyond question.”

“But you are, indeed, correct”—Stokes inclined his head to Ida—“that the time shown on the broken clock was three-thirty-three. Exactly that. But the thing is, the only person who could have set the clock to that time, then broken it by smashing it on the hearth as if it had fallen in some struggle, was the murderer. So other than the investigating team, the only one who knows the time shown was three-thirty-three is the murderer.” Stokes held Ida’s gaze. “You.”

“And because we know that Viola was dead by one-thirty, and it was the murderer who set the clock to three-thirty-three, we know that the murderer will have a cast-iron alibi for that time. Why else go to the trouble of setting the clock to three-thirty-three and breaking it?” Penelope smiled at Ida. “The murderer is you, and of course you set the clock to three-thirty-three, a time when you knew, without doubt, that you would have two unimpeachable witnesses to testify that, at that time, you were nowhere near Lavender Cottage but, instead, in your own parlor, pouring tea and passing around scones.”

Barnaby flatly stated, “You, Ida Penrose, killed Viola Huntingdon.”

Ida stared at them, then her gaze darted sideways to Arthur and Jim. She took in their shocked and horrified expressions. The understanding that she was the murderer was blazoned across their faces, along with burgeoning condemnation.

Her face worked, then her resistance broke, and uncrossing her arms, she railed at her husband, “That stupid woman! She wouldn’t let it be!”

“B-But…” Arthur stuttered, clearly not knowing what to say.

Ida rounded on him. “She was going to take us to court, and she’d win, and you’d lose a good third and more of your trees. And you’d’ve hated that! And we’d have been stretched for coin, too.” She glared at Jim. “We’d’ve had to let you go, so you can stop looking at me like that. I did what I had to.” Her expression fierce, she looked at Arthur. “I did it for you.”

But Arthur was already shaking his head. “No.” His voice was faint. “Why…?”

Ida swung to face the investigators as if she could explain her actions to them and they would understand. “I gave her a chance to back down, but she wouldn’t. She said she’d take the land if it was the last thing she did. Well”—Ida shrugged—“telling me that was the last thing she did, so there.”

Curious, Penelope asked, “You really don’t think you’ve done anything terribly wrong, do you?”

Ida recrossed her arms and looked at Penelope, then she jutted her chin at Barnaby. “If someone were going to take his land—land he’d slaved over for years and that was his passion—wouldn’t you do something to stop them?”

Penelope conceded, “I would do something, certainly, but I assure you that no matter the circumstances, no matter how fraught the situation, I would never stoop to murder.”

Ida stared at Penelope, then sniffed contemptuously and looked away.

Stokes glanced at O’Donnell and Morgan and summoned them with a jerk of his head. Returning his gaze to Ida, he formally announced, “Ida Penrose, I’m arresting you for the murder by strangulation of Viola Huntingdon on Thursday, October fifteenth, in Lavender Cottage in Ashmore village. You will be held in Salisbury pending the next assizes.”

Ida didn’t look at Arthur. Instead, she glared at the experienced sergeant and constable who approached. After forcibly securing her hands in front of her, O’Donnell and Morgan each took one of Ida’s arms and, having to push a little to get her moving, steered her onto the orchard path. Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes stepped aside and watched Ida, her head still arrogantly high, being led away. She made no attempt to look back but marched on between the policemen, through the gate Constable Price held wide, past Henry and Madeline, who had drawn to one side, and on around the house.

Penelope looked at Arthur Penrose. Shattered, disbelieving, and overcome were some of the words that sprang to her mind, but Jim Swinson had his arm around the older man’s shoulders, all but holding him up, and when Penelope caught Jim’s eye and raised her brows, Jim nodded. “I’ll stay with him.”

Penelope turned away from the grief progressively etching itself into Arthur’s face.

She took the hand Barnaby offered and gripped tight, and together, they followed Stokes out of the orchard.

Henry, Madeline, and Constable Price joined them as they trailed O’Donnell and Morgan and their captive to the lane, where Phelps had the police coach waiting.

Wordlessly, they all stood around the front gate and watched as Morgan and O’Donnell helped Ida to climb inside, then they shut the barred door on her and climbed up to take the reins Phelps relinquished, while Price climbed to the rear bench.

As soon as O’Donnell, Morgan, and Price had settled, Stokes nodded to them. “Straight to Salisbury. Mallard will be waiting to take her in charge. Then join us back at the inn.”

The Scotland Yard men saluted, as did Price, then Morgan flicked the reins and set the old coach rolling ponderously out of Ashmore.

A sound like a gasp drew Penelope’s attention to the group of villagers who had gathered on the green. Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper were there, along with men Penelope took to be their husbands, as well as Reverend Foswell and Mrs. Foswell, and the Gilroys, mother and son. There were others, too, presumably from other village cottages. All watched in somber silence as the police coach rolled off, taking away Ida Penrose, someone most there had known for much of their lives.

It was a sober, rather sad moment, and each appeared sunk in their own thoughts; no one wanted to engage in any conversation.

Similarly wordless, Penelope linked her arm in Barnaby’s and, with Stokes and Henry and Madeline following, walked toward Lavender Cottage and their carriage with Phelps back on the box and Connor up behind. Henry’s curricle was waiting a little farther along the lane.

As she grasped Barnaby’s hand and climbed into their carriage, Penelope wondered how many others in the immediate vicinity were, like her, thinking of how many lives had been changed forever by one single, violent act.

They gathered in quiet relief and slowly burgeoning cheer in the private parlor at the King John Inn. After seeing Ida Penrose into her cell in Salisbury, Mallard returned with the Scotland Yard coach and joined the company.

In recognition of their help, Barnaby and Stokes invited O’Donnell, Morgan, Phelps, and Connor, as well as Constable Price, who had returned with Mallard, to join the gathering in the private parlor.

Once all their glasses were charged, Stokes raised his tankard, called for quiet, and thanked those assembled for their assistance in what had proved to be a tricky case, then called for a toast all around to Justice’s ultimate triumph.

Cheers duly followed, and everyone drank.

As she lowered her glass, Penelope observed, “And if, as we should, we are to learn from the mistakes we made, then surely, the lesson from this case is to always— always —be sure to talk to the gossips first!”

Everyone laughed and drank to that, too.

Mallard, whose attitude to the Scotland Yard contingent had changed significantly from what it had been when he’d first encountered them, was quick to add his thanks to the interlopers on his patch. He raised his glass to them. “Much as it pains me to admit it, we would never have taken up the murderer—the right person for the murder—if it hadn’t been for your dogged persistence and insistence in following the logic of things. That’s taught me and my men something, and for that, I do thank all of you.”

After the Londoners had gracefully smiled and accepted that accolade with another quaff of their drinks, Henry, standing beside Madeline’s chair, cleared his throat, and when everyone looked his way, he hoisted his tankard and declared, “I, too, wish to propose a toast of thanks to all those who came to Ashmore village and helped apprehend the murderer most surprisingly lurking in our midst. While there will be shock and sadness among the villagers, I also know, from experience”—he half bowed to Stokes—“that if a murder isn’t properly solved, then the inevitable niggling questions remain and, eventually, blossom into distrust and wariness, which ultimately destroys the very village life that all those who live in small communities hold so dear.”

He looked around the gathering and raised his glass to them all. “So on behalf of the village of Ashmore, I thank you all for your help in solving the murder of Viola Huntingdon.”

“And,” Madeline said, her tone firm and strong as she raised her glass and looked around the company, “I, too, would like to add my thanks to all involved. You have ensured that justice is done. Mere hours before you arrived in the village, I swore to Viola I would seek justice for her, and you’ve helped me achieve that goal, and for that, all of you have my undying thanks.”

The others smiled and inclined their heads graciously, then Mallard humphed. “Small villages—you’d think nothing out of the ordinary ever happened there, and in that, you’d be very wrong. Why…”

The Superintending Constable proceeded to entertain them with tales of several outlandish cases that had occurred in the small villages of Wiltshire and Dorset.

Stokes joined in and described a string of peculiar cases that had occurred in the Home Counties, including one involving headless scarecrows. “Being Scotland Yard, we’re the ones the local forces turn to for help, although often, we’re as much at sea as they are.”

“Sometimes more so,” O’Donnell put in. “Remember that time in Weybridge?”

Morgan shuddered. “The jewelry from some merchant’s house found hidden in a nearby farm’s pigsty.” He glanced around at the others. “You have no idea how aggressive and attached to their home pigs can be.”

O’Donnell was nodding. “Big beggars they were, too.”

From there, the conversations and stories meandered into an ever more light-hearted vein.

Penelope finally found an opportunity to question—interrogate—Madeline on her association with Thomas Glendower. Stokes buttonholed Henry about how Henry’s parents, whom Stokes had met five years before, were faring.

The police and Phelps and Connor, meanwhile, were talking business, with Mallard questioning Morgan on life at Scotland Yard, while Constable Price eagerly asked O’Donnell, Phelps, and Connor about previous cases on which they’d assisted.

Barnaby sipped his ale and, with a gentle smile curving his lips, watched as everyone—each in their own way yet all very much a company still—put the recent case to rest and turned toward tomorrow.

Eventually, the company broke up, with Phelps and Connor retiring in order to have the carriage ready to depart after breakfast the next day.

O’Donnell and Morgan followed, being the ones who would have to drive the police coach back to London, and Mallard hired a horse from the innkeeper and, with final good wishes all around, left to ride back to Salisbury. Meanwhile, Constable Price bade them all goodnight and headed off across the moonlit fields. Penelope had learned that Price lived with his parents on a farm not far away.

That left her, Barnaby, and Stokes to wave Henry and Madeline off. The five of them walked out of the inn and halted just outside as the inn’s ostler brought the horse and light carriage around.

The ostler halted the horse, and as he climbed down, Penelope walked beside Madeline to the curricle, while Barnaby and Stokes chatted with Henry as he took the reins and climbed up to the box seat.

“Sadly,” Penelope said, having already discussed the matter with Barnaby, “we won’t be able to attend Viola’s funeral.”

Despite all the discoveries and consequent excitement, Madeline had managed to finalize the arrangements, and Viola’s funeral and interment would be held on Monday, two days away.

Madeline climbed up and sat beside Henry, and Penelope smiled up at her. “We’ve been away for nearly a week, and the boys will start to wonder.”

Madeline smiled back. “I quite understand.” She leaned down, caught Penelope’s hand, and lightly squeezed her fingers. “I’m most sincerely grateful to you and Barnaby for coming to Ashmore and helping.” She glanced at the three men. “You two and Stokes, as well. I seriously doubt Viola’s murderer would have been caught without your help.” Madeline turned back to Penelope and more seriously said, “Very likely Monty would have been hanged for the murder, and no matter how much of a blight on the community he is, that wouldn’t have been right.”

With that, Penelope had to agree. “You will call when you’re back in town?”

“Definitely.” Madeline grinned as she straightened. “Aside from all else, I do think we should pursue your idea of setting up a small private society for ladies who like to invest. I’m sure Thomas and Rose, too, would be in favor.”

Penelope laughed. “We’ll do that, then, when you return to town.”

With promises on that score, and one from Henry that he, too, would call on them when he was next in town, the three Londoners stepped back from the carriage, and Henry flourished his whip in a farewell wave and steered the curricle out of the yard and off along the lane.

For several seconds, the three stood silently, savoring the peace of the country night, then Stokes sighed. “I’m for bed.” He turned for the inn, and Penelope and Barnaby followed.

After leading the way inside and up the stairs, Stokes halted at the head of the stairs and nodded to Penelope and Barnaby. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

They murmured agreement and turned for their room as Stokes strode down the opposite wing.

As they ambled slowly along the corridor, Penelope mused, “I rather suspect that we’ll be traveling down to Ashmore again soon enough.” She glanced at Barnaby, a smugly satisfied smile on her face. “This time, to stay at Glossup Hall for a wedding.”

He arched his brows but saw no reason to disagree.

Looking ahead, Penelope observed, “A wedding will be an excellent way to turn the negativity generated by the murder to positive hope for the future.”

“Hmm.” Barnaby thought about that. “That’s what marriage should signify, isn’t it? Hope for the future, not just for the couple involved but for their community.”

A slight frown tangling her dark brows, Penelope inclined her head. “That should be the way of things, yet as this case illustrates, there are instances where a marriage doesn’t work that way. First, there was Henry’s marriage to Kitty. That ended in infidelity that, ultimately, led to murder. Then Pincer waved marriage like a flag before Viola’s face, and she nearly succumbed. Only luck saved her from what would have been a dreadful mistake. But the worst travesty, surely, was Ida’s twist on what marriage should mean. She saw her role as doing anything and everything to make Arthur happy. In her eyes, marriage excused and, indeed, gave her license to do whatever she deemed necessary to achieve what she saw as required by her role. She never discussed her decisions with Arthur. She simply acted as she believed she needed to, and in her eyes, she had the right to do so.”

They paused in a splash of moonlight before the door to their room, and Penelope looked at Barnaby and sighed. Then she softly smiled. “But seeing the times marriages lead people astray, even into murder, only serves to make me appreciate the benefits of a marriage that works properly all the more.”

Barnaby chuckled. “Marriage that works properly. Is that how you see us?”

“Of course!” Her head tilted, Penelope grinned at him.

“I was wondering,” he admitted, smiling into her dark eyes, “how to tactfully point out that our marriage seems to go along rather nicely with murder adding spice on the side.”

She nodded sagely as he reached around her and opened the room’s door. “Ah yes, but the important distinction is ‘on the side.’” Moving into the room, she added, “Very firmly outside our personal sphere.”