Page 2 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)

Penelope had just sent away the tea tray, and she, Barnaby, and Henry were exchanging news of their various relatives’ children when sounds of arrival in the front hall were followed by Stokes walking determinedly into the room.

Barnaby and Henry rose, while Penelope remained seated.

Stokes half bowed in her direction, then held out his hand to Barnaby.

After shaking hands, Stokes, whose gray gaze had fixed on Henry, nodded in greeting and offered his hand. “Lord Glossup.” With a faint smile teasing his lips, Stokes added, “I would say that it’s a pleasure to see you again, but given the circumstances, you might not feel the same. Be that as it may, I’m actually glad to find you here.”

“Oh?” Henry shook hands, then he and Barnaby resumed their seats on the pair of long sofas, and Stokes moved to the place opposite Penelope.

“Indeed.” Stokes sat. “I left the commissioner’s office to find Adair’s summons waiting. As it happened, courtesy of the commissioner’s direction, I was already heading this way. The Salisbury City Police, who are in charge of investigating the suspicious death of”—Stokes drew out his notebook and consulted a page—“one Viola Huntingdon, spinster, have requested Scotland Yard’s assistance in the matter of apprehending the man they believe to be the guilty party.” Stokes looked at Henry. “Given that you’re here, I assume you’re aware that you are the Salisbury police’s prime suspect.”

Henry briefly closed his eyes, then sighed, opened them, and admitted, “I was worried it would come to that.”

Penelope leapt to say, “We’ve already heard the basis of the case against Henry, and it seems entirely circumstantial and altogether weak.”

Stokes’s expression was as close as it ever got to reassuring. “I suspected as much. That’s why the Salisbury Superintending Constable has passed the hot potato to us. He might wish to say it’s an open-and-shut case and they have their man, yet even he isn’t entirely convinced.” Stokes focused on Henry. “You’ll be pleased to know that we at the Yard”—grinning, he tipped his head to Barnaby and Penelope—“and especially our two consultants here are not so inclined to leap to conclusions.”

“Thank God for that,” Henry muttered, and it was plain he was greatly relieved.

Stokes continued, “Needless to say, especially in light of my previous visit to that part of the country, the case has officially landed in my lap, along with the recommendation to inquire whether you two”—again, he nodded to Barnaby and Penelope—“are available to assist.”

Penelope promptly replied, “We are, indeed, available and keen to help.”

Barnaby was faintly frowning. “Ashmore’s in Dorset, isn’t it? Why is it Salisbury City’s case?”

It was Henry who replied, “Because Ashmore is close to the county border, and although Wiltshire has a countywide police force, Dorset is yet to appoint one, so in the Ashmore area, Salisbury City Police are the responsible police force.”

“In addition,” Stokes said with a questioning look at Henry, “there are, I’m told, local constables.”

Henry nodded. “They’re stationed in various villages and report to Salisbury. In Ashmore, Constable Price is our local man. He lives on the family farm nearby and watches over several villages, not just Ashmore.”

“Right, then.” Stokes flipped to a fresh page in his notebook, then looked at Henry. “I would be obliged if you would tell me all you know of the victim, Viola Huntingdon, and anything pertinent regarding her death.”

Henry blinked, then ventured, “I’m not sure I can tell you much of Viola—I didn’t know her all that well.”

Penelope took pity on him and asked, “Had she lived in the village for long?”

“Oh. I see. About five years.” Henry paused, then added, “She bought Lavender Cottage a little after that business with Kitty.”

Busily scribbling, Stokes caught Penelope’s eye and nodded encouragingly.

She continued, “Was Viola well-liked in the village?”

“Ah, well, not entirely.”

“My memory of the village is that it’s quite tiny,” Barnaby put in. “Who else lives there?”

“It is very small,” Henry agreed, “and as for those who live there, those who had more to do with Viola are Reverend and Mrs. Foswell in the rectory of St. Nicholas’ Church, and Mrs. Iris Perkins and her family, and Gladys Hooper and the Hoopers, and Arthur and Ida Penrose.” He paused then added, “Penrose Cottage is more or less opposite the village pond, and Lavender Cottage is the next house along Green Lane.”

“Did Viola have any staff?” Penelope asked.

“Not live-in,” Henry said. “Mrs. Gilroy—she lives in a cottage along Halfpenny Lane, which is opposite the church—was Viola’s housekeeper. And Jim Swinson, who lives nearby and works several days for Arthur Penrose, did Viola’s garden on his days off from the Penroses.”

“Did Viola have a particular friend in the village?” Penelope asked.

“That,” Henry stated, “would be Mrs. Foswell—they were as thick as thieves—and I believe Viola was also on friendly terms with Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper. I’ve never heard of any difficulty between Viola and Mrs. Gilroy, either.”

“What about the neighbors?” Stokes asked. “The Penroses.”

“Ah,” Henry replied. “Relationships there were a trifle strained—something to do with a boundary dispute. But other than arguing back and forth, I haven’t heard that either party has been moved to any more definite action. There haven’t been any threats uttered, as far as I know.” Henry paused, then sighed and went on, “One doesn’t like to speak ill of the dead, and this isn’t really all that ill, but amongst the villagers, Viola had a reputation of being a stickler. It might have had something to do with being a minister’s daughter—I did mention that, didn’t I? That her father had been the minister at St. Edmund’s Church in Salisbury until his death about five years ago?”

“No,” Stokes said, busily jotting, “but you have now, so please continue.”

“Yes, well, Viola had standards, and she expected everyone else to live up to them. I’ve heard that she could be quite…insistent. And stubborn with it. Yet all that could simply have been an entrenched belief that she knew best. I never heard any malicious word or deed attributed to her.”

Barnaby offered, “Could she be described as an inveterate do-gooder? One who was determined to do good even if the party involved didn’t want her advice, much less to follow it?”

“Yes!” Henry nodded. “That’s Viola to a T. And as you can imagine, such an attitude didn’t always endear her to others.”

“So there might well be other sources of tension between the victim and various villagers,” Stokes said.

“I suppose so,” Henry replied, “but I’m afraid I know little of such matters.”

“All right.” Stokes looked at Henry. “Now, tell me what interactions you’ve had recently with the victim.”

Henry grimaced. “Generally speaking, until this past Thursday, we haven’t had any particular interactions at all. Just nodding politely when we pass in the lane and at church—that sort of thing.”

“But on Thursday…” Penelope prompted.

Henry drew in a breath and, with his hands pressed together, described to Stokes the Thursday-morning exchange in Green Lane, more or less exactly as he had to Penelope and Barnaby.

“So you remained mounted the entire time and rode on to where?” Stokes asked.

“I often ride toward Tollard Royal. It’s a pleasant run, and I own several farms that way. I stopped and chatted with two of my tenant farmers, then fetched up at the King John Inn in Tollard Royal for lunch—the food’s excellent and the ale quite palatable.”

Stokes nodded. “I remember it. That’s the inn you recommended I stay at when I was last down that way.”

“Yes, well, the innkeeper and staff know me well, so they can vouch for me being there,” Henry said. “I was a bit late and left about three and rode directly south to visit the last of my farms. It must have been about four when I left there and rode west to Green Lane. I rode along it until I came to Lavender Cottage. By then, I’d calmed down and felt I should apologize and perhaps offer to replace any of the lavenders in the hedge if they died. So I stopped at the cottage.”

“What time was that?” Stokes asked.

“About four-thirty. The light was waning, but there was still enough to see by.”

“Where did you leave your horse?” Barnaby asked.

“And the dog?” Penelope put in.

“I left Stiller, my horse, tied to the hedge by the gate,” Henry replied. “And I told Humphrey, my hound, to wait with him, which he did.”

Stokes looked at Barnaby and faintly grinned. “That’s hardly the actions of a man trying to hide his presence while he murders the occupant.” Stokes looked at Henry. “I take it the villagers would recognize your horse and dog?”

Henry nodded. “I ride Stiller every day, and I often take Humphrey along as well, so I’d be surprised if they didn’t.”

“What happened when you called at the cottage?” Stokes asked.

“Nothing. I knocked and waited, then knocked again, but no one came to the door.” Henry shrugged. “So I left. Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper were leaving Penrose Cottage at that time, and both saw me coming out of the Lavender Cottage gate. I tipped my hat to them, then mounted up and rode home. My staff can vouch for when I got in.”

“Hmm.” Stokes flicked back through his notes. “The information from Salisbury is patchy to say the least. What have you—and I assume the villagers—heard about how and when Viola Huntingdon died?”

Accustomed to hearing testimonies in court, Henry paused to order his thoughts before relating, “Thursday afternoon is one of Mrs. Gilroy’s half days off, so she left the cottage at noon, and she says Miss Huntingdon was hale and whole, if a bit distracted, at that time. Other than that, we haven’t heard much, but I gather that the consensus of opinion is that Miss Huntingdon was strangled and already dead by the time I knocked on her door.”

“I understand,” Stokes said, “that the Salisbury medical examiner believes the death occurred between twelve and four, and for some reason, the police believe the critical time is three-thirty.” He glanced at Barnaby. “If Henry left the King John Inn at three and called on his tenant farmer between then and four, he can’t have been at the cottage at three-thirty.”

Barnaby smiled. “No, indeed.” He looked at Henry. “I believe you’re off the hook.”

Henry exhaled gustily. “I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me—that there’s some actual evidence that proves I couldn’t have committed the crime.”

“Ask Henry to tell you about the accusation leveled his way,” Penelope said. “There’s a clue or two buried in the words, I would say.”

Stokes looked at Henry, and after pulling a resigned face, Henry recounted the charge he’d faced on the church lawn the day before.

At the end of his recitation, Stokes grimaced with distaste. “My sympathies. That must have been difficult. I had heard there’s a sister who lives in London and that she’d traveled down to Ashmore just in time to see the victim’s body being carted out of the cottage.” He looked at Henry. “I find that timing curious. Can you tell me anything about her?”

“I believe her first name is Madeline. She’s visited the village several times before—I recall seeing her with Viola on multiple occasions over the years—but until Sunday, I had never spoken with her. Apparently, she received a letter from Viola that Mrs. Gilroy had posted on Thursday in which Viola had begged Madeline to come down and assist her in dealing with this ‘secret admirer, H.’” Somewhat diffidently, Henry added, “Arriving at the cottage at the moment she did must have been a terrible shock.”

“Indeed,” Penelope said. “And I suppose being overcome with grief might go some way to excusing her ridiculous accusation.” She studied Henry. “What does she look like?”

To Penelope’s surprise, Henry faintly blushed. “Well,” he temporized, “I couldn’t actually see her face—her features or her hair. She was wearing one of those black veils over her hat.” He paused, but when Penelope simply watched him and waited, he added, “She’s of about average height, I would say, perhaps a touch taller, with a good figure, and I did notice that she was very well dressed but in a quiet, unobtrusive way.”

That was significantly greater detail than Penelope had expected Henry to have observed. She was suddenly much more curious about Miss Madeline Huntingdon.

Stokes had been jotting. “Right.” He looked up. “So what can you tell me about this secret admirer? Are there any other gentlemen with names beginning with H in the vicinity?”

Henry shook his head. “Not that anyone’s aware of. I’m the only H around. As you know, Ashmore is a very small village, the sort where everyone usually knows everyone else’s business. Yet it seems that Viola had a secret admirer whose name begins with H , but other than that, no one has the faintest idea who he is.”

Stokes frowned. “I remember Ashmore village. I assume it hasn’t changed much with the years, so how on earth did Viola Huntingdon manage to meet with a secret admirer without anyone seeing him?”

Henry replied, “We all now think he must have gone back and forth via the rear garden of Lavender Cottage. The rear of the block is bordered by a thick stand of trees—an old windbreak that’s become an established strip of woodland. Beyond the trees, the fields run all the way to the Tollard Royal-Ashmore lane, which is lined with trees and bushes with open fields on both sides. It’s possible that someone could have left a horse by the lane—or even on the other side of it—and walked to the cottage across the fields. There’s an old right-of-way that leads into the windbreak, more or less at the back of Lavender Cottage.”

Stokes grunted. “Of course. And, I assume, no neighbors look out over the rear garden.”

“No. The Penroses are the only near neighbors, and there are trees and bushes along their boundary wall that block their view of Lavender Cottage.”

“What about the housekeeper?” Penelope asked. “Mrs. Gilroy. Had she seen or noticed anything?”

“She says not. Indeed,” Henry said, “she seems as shocked as anyone that Viola had a secret admirer and she didn’t know of it. It seems he only visited on Mrs. Gilroy’s half days off—on Thursdays and Sundays.”

“And Miss Huntingdon had no other live-in staff.” Stokes sighed and shut his notebook. He looked at the others. “I believe our next move is to visit the scene of the crime, although we’ll need to call on the Salisbury City Police first to inform them that I’m taking over the case.”

Looking even more relieved, Henry said, “I can put you all up at Glossup Hall, if that suits?”

Penelope exchanged a look with Barnaby and Stokes, then turned to Henry. “Actually, we’ve found it’s best not to stay with anyone involved, however tangentially, in the crime we’re investigating. That way, we aren’t seen as taking sides.”

Henry nodded in understanding. “In this case, that’s probably wise.” He grimaced. “Tongues would wag even more than they are already.”

Stokes uncrossed his ankles and sat up. “As it seems the King John Inn is still the best place to stay, we’ll make that our base.” To Barnaby and Penelope, he explained, “It’s only a short drive from Ashmore.”

Barnaby nodded. “Having our own carriage down there will help, so I suggest we drive down tomorrow morning.”

“Early,” Stokes said. “We’ll need to leave before dawn if we’re to reach Salisbury, speak with the police there, then get to Ashmore in time to start interviewing the locals.” He looked at Penelope hopefully. “I’ll come in time to join you for breakfast.”

She laughed. “I’ll let Mostyn know that we’ll require breakfast before setting out. Shall we plan to leave at six?”

When all agreed six would be early enough, Penelope turned to Henry. “Please do stay overnight, Henry. Then we can all breakfast together and leave at first light.”

Barnaby rose and headed for the bellpull. “I’ll get Mostyn to send one of the footmen for your bag. White’s, I think you said?”

Henry looked from Barnaby to Penelope, then back again. “Thank you. Staying here would be most welcome.”

Barnaby smiled and tugged the bellpull.

When Barnaby finished giving Mostyn the required orders, Stokes rose. “I’ll send O’Donnell and Morgan down with the police coach. That way, we’ll have two conveyances at our disposal.”

Everyone agreed that was a wise idea, and while Penelope, Barnaby, and Henry accompanied Stokes into the front hall, they finalized their plan to drive directly to Salisbury, where Henry had left his curricle in a stable near the railway station. Before parting from them, Henry would direct them to the police station, then collect his curricle and drive home to Glossup Hall.

Stokes nodded. “So”—he looked at Barnaby and Penelope—“from Salisbury, I’ll send O’Donnell and Morgan on in the police coach to secure rooms for us all at the inn. Meanwhile, we’ll make ourselves known to the Superintending Constable, extract all the evidence we can from him, then follow the others to Tollard Royal.”

“If we leave at six,” Barnaby said, “we should be able to reach Salisbury by noon—at least, our carriage should.”

“That will work.” Stokes accepted his hat from Mostyn and set it on his head. “The murder was committed last Thursday afternoon, and it’s already Monday. I’d like to get to Ashmore in time to inspect the cottage and get some idea of its surrounds before the light fails.”

“We might even get a chance to conduct a few interviews,” Penelope put in.

“We can certainly hope.” Stokes nodded in farewell to them all. “And now, I’m off to break the news to my dear wife that I’ll be going out of town.”

“Indeed.” Penelope caught his eye. “And please tell her that even though I’ll be going with you, I hope her planned visit with your little ones on Wednesday will still go ahead. Our two are so looking forward to it, and I’m sure Megan will be, too.”

Stokes tapped his hat. “I’ll convey that message.” Mostyn opened the door, and Stokes walked out, calling over his shoulder, “And I’ll see you all bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Barnaby and Penelope laughed, and even Henry chuckled.

Then Mostyn closed the door, and they turned back toward the drawing room.

Penelope looped her arm in Henry’s. “Now, Henry dear, I’ve never been to Ashmore village. I need you to describe it to me. In detail.”

Barnaby smiled and followed the other two into the drawing room.

By the time the Adairs’ coach drew up to the curb in Salisbury, Penelope was more than ready to get out and stretch her legs. As planned, they’d set out from Albemarle Street at six o’clock and had caught up with the police wagon, which must have left Scotland Yard in the middle of the night, just outside Salisbury.

Stokes descended from the carriage first, followed by Barnaby, who reached back and offered Penelope his hand. She took it and climbed down the steps, then moved aside to allow Henry to join them.

As curious as ever, Penelope looked around. She’d never visited Salisbury before. From what she’d seen on their way into the town’s center, the layout was typical of larger provincial towns that had grown up around a central market square, with a castle in one direction and, in this case, the famous cathedral some way to the south. She could just spot the spire in the distance, rising above the city’s rooftops against a hazy blue-gray sky.

The street they were in was called Endless Street, and despite the name, a short way away, the southern end gave onto one corner of the market square. According to Henry, the solid, squat redbrick building before which they stood was the main office of the Salisbury City Police.

The police coach from Scotland Yard, with Sergeant O’Donnell on the box seat and Constable Morgan beside him, drew up behind the carriage. With the conveyances one behind the other, the contrast between the sleek, well-sprung modern traveling carriage and the much older, smaller, cramped, and dumpy black coach was stark. It was entirely unsurprising that Stokes had elected to join Barnaby, Penelope, and Henry in the traveling carriage.

“Let me get my bag.” Henry suited action to the words and, half a minute later, returned to where Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope were waiting. “I’ll leave you here, then.” Henry nodded at the police station. “As I mentioned, the man in charge is Superintending Constable Mallard.” Henry paused, then added, “I’ve always found him to be a decent sort, but he can be stubborn.”

“We’ll speak with him,” Stokes said, “and see what he can tell us, then head down to Ashmore.” He looked up at O’Donnell and Morgan, who’d remained on the box of the police coach. “You two can drive directly to Tollard Royal and hire rooms for all of us at the King John Inn.”

“One moment.” Barnaby turned to look up at their coachman, Phelps, and the groom-cum-guard, Connor, who was seated alongside. “Connor, you might as well go with O’Donnell and Morgan. You know what Mrs. Adair and I require by way of rooms, and you can also arrange for a private parlor for our party.”

“Yes, sir.” Connor readily climbed down from the carriage, walked back to the coach, and swung up to the bench at the coach’s rear.

“Right, then.” O’Donnell saluted them all with his whip, then shook the reins, and the coach slowly lumbered off down the street, continuing toward the market square.

Henry hefted his bag. “I’ll be off.” He tipped his head in the opposite direction. “The stable I use is nearer the station.”

“One last thing.” Stokes focused on Henry. “I realize you have to drive through Ashmore village to reach Glossup Hall, but for the moment, it would be helpful if you would avoid spending time in the village and not speak to anyone about the case until we’ve had a chance to get there and assess the situation firsthand.”

Penelope put it more bluntly. “In other words, until we’ve learned what people can tell us without them being reminded of your involvement or, indeed, of the past.”

Barnaby added, “We don’t want them speculating or inventing things to be interesting.”

“We would infinitely prefer them to tell us facts rather than what they think might have happened,” Penelope said.

“Of course,” Henry replied. “I have more than enough to get on with managing the estate. I’ll avoid the village for now.” He shook hands with Barnaby and Stokes and tipped his hat to Penelope, then strode off.

Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes watched him go, then as one, they turned and looked at the police station.

“Right,” Stokes said. “Let’s get to it.”

There was a certain relish in his tone that made Penelope smile as he led the way into the building, and she and Barnaby followed.

Stokes strode directly for the front counter, currently manned by a fresh-faced constable. Stokes introduced himself and added that Barnaby and Penelope were consultants working for Scotland Yard. “We’re here to speak with Superintending Constable Mallard.”

The young constable’s eyes couldn’t have got any wider. “Yes, sir! At once, sir!” He glanced around, plainly wondering what to do next, then piped, “I won’t be more than a minute, sirs. Ma’am.” With that, he rushed to a door along the wall behind the counter and disappeared through it.

Significantly less than a minute later, a large, heavily built man of about fifty summers, with graying-brown hair and a heavyset figure garbed in a neat but well-worn police uniform, came out through the same door, moving with a slow yet deliberate flat-footed gait. In keeping with his size, his features were large in his round face and, overall, unremarkable and tending toward the fleshy. The only element about him that was smallish was his gray-blue eyes, and the expression in them was shrewd and calculating as he rapidly took stock of his visitors.

Unruffled and urbane, Stokes nodded in greeting. “Mallard.”