Page 4 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)

CHAPTER 3

I f Penelope had been ready to stretch her legs when they reached Salisbury, she was even more eager to quit the carriage when, some twenty miles farther on, it rolled into the tiny village—barely more than a hamlet—of Ashmore.

They’d elected not to stop at Tollard Royal on their way through in order to have as much time as possible before sunset to view Lavender Cottage and, they hoped, conduct their first interviews.

The carriage slowed to negotiate a left turn, and as it swung around, Penelope looked out to see a shallow pond in the center of a small expanse of green. “Henry said the Penroses’ cottage, the one next to Lavender Cottage, was opposite the pond, so we must be close.”

Stokes grunted and opened his eyes. “Good.” He looked out of the carriage on the opposite side, then said, “There it is. I can see the lavender hedge.”

Sure enough, the carriage slowed again, then rocked to a halt.

Stokes leaned forward, opened the door, and climbed out. Barnaby followed, and Penelope gripped the hand he offered and descended the carriage steps to the packed-earth surface of the narrow lane.

She paused to shake out her skirts, then straightened and looked around. The grassy area surrounding the roughly circular pond appeared to be the village green, but in such a small village in the middle of the afternoon, there was no one out strolling. The pond and green filled a triangular space south of the junction where Green Lane, on which Penrose Cottage and Lavender Cottage stood, met the larger north-south road. The signpost at the junction labeled the road heading north as Noade Street, while south of the junction lay High Street.

With his hand at her waist, Barnaby urged Penelope toward the cottage, and she readily turned and walked to the gate. There, she paused to take in her first view of the victim’s home. Behind the chest-high lavender hedge and beyond a bountiful cottage garden currently in autumnal decline sat a neat redbrick cottage typical of the area, with a lead roof and two medium-tall chimneys. The white-painted front door stood squarely in the middle of the front facade, flanked by twin bow windows with leaded panes. The window placements were echoed by dormer windows on the upper floor. Penelope suspected the cottage would prove to be one of the common two-up, two-down variety, yet the overall impact was of a residence of quiet prosperity.

Eager to investigate further, she glanced at Stokes, who had also halted by the gate.

Stokes had been studying the house and obligingly swung the gate wide. At that instant, the cottage’s front door opened, and a young man looked out. He saw them, and his expression lightened, and he came quickly down the path. Judging by his crisp blue uniform and his eager expression, Penelope deduced that they were about to meet Constable Price.

By the time he reached them and halted, Constable Price had taken in Penelope and Barnaby’s presence, and he was no longer so certain whom he was welcoming. Clearly deciding not to assume, he opened with “Can I help you?”

Stokes smiled approvingly. “We’re hoping you will. Constable Price, I take it?”

“Indeed, sir.” Price looked hopeful. “And you are?”

“Inspector Stokes from Scotland Yard, and these two are Mr. and Mrs. Adair. They act as consultants to Scotland Yard in certain investigations.”

Price nodded respectfully. “Welcome to Ashmore, Inspector, ma’am, sir.” He looked at Stokes. “Sir, as instructed, I’ve kept everyone out of the parlor and away from the area where the body was found and the medical examiner says the murder took place. But I’m afraid I haven’t been able to keep the victim’s sister, Miss Madeline Huntingdon, out of the house entirely. She stayed at the rectory on Saturday and Sunday nights, but on Monday afternoon, she insisted on moving back here, to the room she customarily uses when she visits. I did get her to agree not to touch anything in her sister’s room, which is where most of the searching took place.”

“Good work. That was sensible thinking.” Stokes was sincere in his approval, and Price relaxed. Stokes waved up the path. “Now, please lead the way and guide us. The parlor first, I think.”

“Yes, sir!” Price came to attention, turned smartly, and strode for the front door.

As she, Stokes, and Barnaby followed, Penelope noticed that both men were smiling, as was she.

“Ah,” Barnaby murmured to Stokes, “to have the enthusiasm of youth.”

Stokes’s smile deepened, and he murmured back, “Regardless, I’m sure we’re all grateful that he’s managed to preserve the scene to the extent he has.”

“Indeed,” Penelope murmured, engaged in a critical survey of the large garden beds to either side of the path. Despite the season, the plantings offered up a profusion of color and artful displays composed of flowers and foliage. The path from the gate to the door was not quite straight and, as it wended slightly this way, then that, afforded varying perspectives of the garden’s vistas.

They reached the front door, and Stokes waved Price ahead, then gestured for Penelope to follow. She did, entering a narrow front hall at the rear of which, to the right, an even narrower staircase ascended to the upper floor. To her immediate left, an open door gave onto what appeared to be the fateful parlor, while farther down the hall, opposite the bottom of the stairs, another door presumably led to the kitchen.

As Penelope paused at the parlor door and Barnaby and Stokes halted behind her, a woman stepped off the bottom stair and turned to face them.

She was tallish, with a stately figure and glossy reddish-brown hair gathered in a loose bun on top of her head. Her heart-shaped face, with its peaches-and-cream complexion, hosted a pair of large hazel eyes, a straight nose, and a determined if rounded chin. The woman moved toward them, and Penelope noted that she had excellent posture, which, combined with her other features, rendered her quite striking.

Her pallor and the lines of grief etched in her face made her identity obvious.

Penelope stepped past Price, who had halted by the parlor door, and extended her gloved hand. “Madeline Huntingdon?”

The lady frowned slightly but nodded and instinctively reached out and lightly grasped Penelope’s fingers. “And you are?”

With her other hand, Penelope waved at Stokes. “This is Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard, who has been called in to take charge of your sister’s sad case. I am Mrs. Adair, and my husband and I act as official consultants to Scotland Yard and are often called on to assist in cases such as this.”

“I see.” Having taken stock of them, Madeline Huntingdon looked faintly overwhelmed.

Penelope offered their condolences on her sister’s death, and Barnaby and Stokes echoed the sentiments.

Stokes glanced through the doorway at the disarranged parlor, then refocused on Madeline Huntingdon. “We appreciate that this is a difficult time for you, Miss Huntingdon. Perhaps we might sit in the kitchen, and you can tell us what you know of the circumstances of your sister’s death.”

Madeline visibly rallied, and a hint of determination entered her gaze, along with a tiny spark of curiosity directed Penelope’s way. “Yes.” Madeline stepped back and gestured to the kitchen door. “Please, do come through.”

Penelope waved Madeline forward and followed, the men at her heels.

The kitchen proved to be a squarish area, with the range built into the inner wall and the back door directly opposite. Counters ran around the wall, with cupboards above and below, and a sink sat beneath a window that overlooked the rear garden.

“We can sit and talk in here.” Madeline led them through an archway in the far wall to where a small round dining table circled by four straight-backed chairs sat in a nook at the corner of the ground floor. Windows on two sides shed ample light into the small chamber. As she claimed one of the chairs, Penelope noted that a door in the inner wall connected the dining room with the parlor and was glad it was firmly closed.

As the men claimed seats and Price took up an unobtrusive stance in the archway, Penelope turned her attention to Madeline Huntingdon and saw that Madeline’s gaze had fixed on the closed door, and there was a haunted expression in her really very fine eyes.

Thinking to distract Madeline and set the tone for the interview, Penelope asked, “Was anything in the kitchen disturbed by the murderer?”

Madeline’s attention immediately refocused, and she looked at Constable Price. “I have to admit I’m not entirely sure.” Returning her gaze to Penelope, she explained, “Mrs. Gilroy had come in all unknowing, and she would have immediately tidied anything out of place.”

Stokes drew out his notebook. “We’ll ask Mrs. Gilroy when we speak with her.”

Stokes looked at Penelope, clearly inviting her to lead the questioning.

She focused on Madeline. “If you would, Miss Huntingdon, can you give us a description of your sister, both in terms of physical state and of character? We’ve learned from experience that the more we know of the victim, the better our chances of understanding why someone might have wanted to kill them.”

Madeline digested that, then nodded. “Yes, I see.” She paused, clearly ordering her thoughts, then went on, “As far as I know, Viola was in excellent health and suffered from no chronic ailments of any sort. She was forty-two years old, hale and well, and should have lived for many more years. She wasn’t a particularly vigorous person—she didn’t ride or enjoy long walks. She and I grew up in Salisbury, and walking around the market and along the shops in Castle Street or as far as the cathedral was Viola’s idea of a long ramble.”

Madeline’s lips had lightly curved, but her emerging smile wavered and fell. After a moment, she went on, “Character wise, she was…I suppose you would say a product of our upbringing as daughters of a minister. She was rigidly conservative in her views. It was important to her that everything was always as correct, as in its place, as it could be. As it should be. Society’s rules were her framework for living, and much in the manner of a minister’s wife, she viewed herself as a guardian of social mores.” She glanced at Stokes and Barnaby. “It was no surprise to me that, once Viola moved down here to Ashmore, her closest friend was Mrs. Foswell, the minister’s wife.”

Stokes, jotting, nodded encouragingly, leaving it to Penelope to ask, “Was there ever any talk of Viola marrying? Either here or back in Salisbury?”

“No.” Madeline paused, then amended, “At least, not until very recently. Prior to August, to my certain knowledge, Viola had never been interested in any man, and the subject of marriage had never arisen.”

“For how long had your sister lived in the village?” Penelope asked. “We understand your father was a minister in Salisbury.”

“Yes, Papa was the minister of St. Edmund’s in Salisbury. He died just over five years ago and left us—Viola and me—quite well off.” In explanation, Madeline added, “He was an investor of sorts and had done well in the railways, so our inheritance was larger than one might suppose. Viola took her half and bought this property. She’d always dreamed of living in a cottage in a small village.” Madeline’s voice quavered.

“And what did you do with your half?” Penelope promptly asked, once again hoping to distract Madeline.

Madeline drew in a deeper, calming breath, then replied, “With my half of our inheritance, I went to London and bought a house there, and I’ve lived there ever since.” She looked at Penelope. “I visited Viola every few months and generally stayed for a week or even two. Although we lived apart and had different lives, we weren’t estranged. It was simply that we liked different things, enjoyed different activities, and that was reflected in the lives we each chose and built for ourselves.”

Penelope nodded understandingly. “I have much the same relationship with my sisters.”

“Purely for the record,” Stokes said, “what’s your address in London?”

“Number twenty, Bedford Place.”

Penelope knew the area. “Between Bloomsbury and Russell Squares.” The observation wasn’t a question. When, surprised, Madeline looked at her, Penelope explained, “I’m often in that area, visiting the university and associated departments.”

Even more surprised, Madeline glanced at Barnaby and Stokes, then returned her gaze to Penelope and offered, “My house has three floors, and I live on the upper floor and lease the first-floor and ground-floor rooms to two history professors.”

Penelope beamed. “Which ones? I know most of them.”

Somewhat warily, Madeline answered, “Professor Atkins and Professor Gardner.”

Penelope nodded. “Ancient history and Roman history. There must be many discussions in their rooms.”

Madeline faintly smiled. “Indeed. They always seem to find some ruin to argue over.”

Feeling that she—and Stokes and Barnaby, too—now had a very much firmer grasp of Madeline and her background as well as Viola’s, Penelope glanced at Stokes, wordlessly passing him the questioning baton.

Accepting it, he said, “We were told you’ve reported that some of your sister’s jewelry is missing, presumably the items the murderer searched for and took. Can you describe the pieces?”

“I can tell you about the bracelet,” Madeline said. “It was my mother’s, and my father passed it on to Viola on her twentieth birthday. She loved that piece and was deeply attached to it. She would rarely go on a visit anywhere without it on her wrist.” Madeline went on to describe a simple antique gold setting framing seven decent-sized aquamarines. “I understand the stones were considered rather fine. As for the necklace, I never saw it. Viola said it had been given to her by her ‘secret admirer, H,’ whom she’d met since I was last here in early August. She wrote to me that the necklace was made to match the bracelet, and she described it as a beautiful and thoughtful gift.”

“So this secret admirer definitely gave her the necklace?” Barnaby asked.

Madeline nodded. “He did, sometime in September, and she said it matched the bracelet perfectly. She was over the moon about it and giddily happy with it and him. Until this past week.”

“Before we move on to why her opinion of the man changed,” Stokes said, “are you certain both necklace and bracelet are gone?”

“Yes.” Madeline sounded quite sure. “I know where Viola would have kept them—where she kept the bracelet—and I’ve checked, and they’re definitely not there”—she glanced at Constable Price—“or anywhere else in the areas I’ve been allowed to search.”

“Were any other items taken?” Penelope asked.

“No.” Madeline frowned, puzzled. “Viola had some quite nice garnet drops and a silver cuff, and they are still in the box on her dressing table.” She glanced at Price. “I had William check.”

“So,” Penelope mused, “it was only the aquamarine set—the bracelet and necklace—that was taken.”

Madeline nodded, and Barnaby put in, “That suggests that this wasn’t any random robbery conducted by someone after sellable goods.”

“No,” Penelope agreed. “Not if they passed up garnet earbobs. They’re very much in fashion at the moment.”

Barnaby glanced at Stokes, then ventured, “It’s difficult to see the theft of jewelry of such lowly worth as sufficient inducement to murder.”

A momentary silence fell while they all digested that.

“The only logical way,” Penelope eventually said, “for the theft of the jewelry to be the motive for the murder is if the theft was in progress and Viola walked in on the thief and recognized him. Then the threat of exposure becomes the motive.”

“That won’t wash,” Stokes said. “Viola was killed in the parlor, not anywhere near where we believe she kept the jewelry, and there were no signs of her having fled there or of her fighting off an attacker.”

“Huh,” Penelope said. “So much for that idea.”

Madeline had been nodding. “I, too, have been puzzling over how the missing jewelry links with Viola’s murder.” She glanced at Barnaby. “As you pointed out, the aquamarines are pretty, but not valuable enough to lure any serious thief.” She shifted her gaze to Stokes. “To my mind, it keeps coming back to this ‘secret admirer, H.’”

“As to that,” Penelope said, “we’ve heard that you suggested that Lord Glossup was the man involved, as his name is Henry and there are no other gentlemen around whose names begin with H , and there is a similarity between the manner of your sister’s murder and that of his lordship’s late wife. However, the earlier murder was committed by someone else, who, indeed, confessed to the crime, and his lordship was in no way involved.”

“As it happens,” Stokes said with a faint smile directed at Penelope, “I was the investigating officer in charge of that case, and we unquestionably caught the right man. Consequently, any suggestion his lordship is responsible for your sister’s death appears to be pure conjecture. We’ve checked with the senior man in Salisbury”—Stokes glanced at Price, presumably to make sure he was paying attention, which he was—“and there are no facts to support any case against Lord Glossup.”

To their joint surprise, Madeline sighed and admitted, “I realized I’d allowed my grief and ill-judged rumors to sway my judgment. On calmer and more rational reflection, I must accept that an argument about a dog being a dog isn’t a motive for murder, no matter the degree of heat involved. And yes, I can readily see Viola getting exceedingly hot under the collar over that. Quite aside from being very proud of her garden, she was something of a prude and tended to overreact to such occurrences.”

At that point, Constable Price cleared his throat, and when they all looked his way, he colored slightly, but gamely volunteered, “I’ve asked around, Inspector, and several people say they’ve spotted a man, a gentleman by his dress, walking over the fields just north of here.” With his head, he indicated the rear of the cottage. “No one saw him close up, not enough to identify. Could have been his lordship, far as anyone could tell, but the thing is, Glossup Hall lies south of the village, and I’ve never seen his lordship walk anywhere—he rides all about on that great bay hunter of his. Yet it seems this other gentleman was always on foot, and as it’s easy to get from the fields to this cottage via the wood, he might have been the one who visited Miss Viola in secret, like.” Price looked at Madeline. “Her secret admirer and all.”

Stokes nodded. “Good work, constable. We’ll need to speak with the villagers who saw this man later, but for now…” He returned his gaze to Madeline. “Do you have any idea who your sister’s secret admirer might be?”

Madeline’s lips thinned, and she shook her head. “She wouldn’t say. I pressed her in my letters, but she clung to the information.” She paused, then went on, “Viola hadn’t had any suitors previously, and I think, when one came knocking, that she wanted to keep him, well, to herself for a time.” Madeline looked at Penelope. “If that makes any sense.”

Penelope nodded. “It does. She wanted to glory in the moment, and at the same time, from what you’ve said of her, she was very likely insecure enough to fear people thinking it was somehow wrong. She was forty-two, I think you said?”

Madeline nodded. “And she felt her age weighing on her—I know it troubled her, that she was alone and growing older. All those sorts of thoughts. But I have to say, she was never so taken with any gentleman as she was with this H, whoever he is. She was inherently suspicious and critical—some might say hypercritical—of others, especially unmarried men, but in her eyes, H could simply do no wrong. She was quite moonstruck, and in all our correspondence—we exchanged letters every week—she referred to him as ‘my secret admirer, H.’”

“ Secret admirer,” Barnaby said. “She specifically labeled him that?”

Madeline nodded. “Virtually all the time. She wrote that he was handsome—very handsome—and utterly charming.” She made a faint, derisive sound. “He must have been to have won her over so completely.”

“How long ago did she first mention him?” Stokes asked.

“About two months ago,” Madeline said. “I last came to visit in late July and left in early August, and he didn’t feature at that time. I would have known if Viola was trying to hide something from me, and she wasn’t—not then.” Madeline frowned, clearly thinking back. “I believe she first mentioned meeting some gentleman later in August, and by September, she’d started to refer to him as ‘my secret admirer, H.’”

Stokes looked up from his notebook. “I understand you arrived here on Saturday.”

Somewhat grimly, Madeline nodded. “Just as Viola’s body was being taken from the cottage.”

“That must have been a terrible shock,” Penelope observed.

“It was.” After a moment, Madeline focused on Stokes. “But to answer your unvoiced question, Inspector, Viola and I exchanged letters every week, mid-week. Last Thursday afternoon, I received her letter penned and posted on the morning of the Wednesday before, and all seemed entirely normal.” She paused, then added, “Other than—and this is me reading between her lines—she seemed extra excited about H’s next visit, and I got the strong impression she was expecting him to ask for her hand, if not at that time, then very soon after. She was, perhaps understandably, excited beyond description, which is more or less how she put it.”

Madeline drew a deeper breath and went on, “Then on Friday afternoon, I received another, entirely unexpected letter in a very different tone. In it, Viola railed at Fate and H and wrote that she’d been betrayed and that she should have known better than to trust him and that I would understand once she explained, but the long and short of it was that she begged me to come down and support her.” Madeline shrugged. “Of course I came. I was on the train first thing Saturday morning and arrived here early that afternoon, only to discover she’d been murdered.” She paused, then added, “I nearly fainted when I saw her body. Constable Price was here and helped me inside, then sent for Mrs. Foswell and the Reverend, whom I know quite well.”

Penelope was frowning. “This unexpected letter—did you bring it with you?”

Madeline blinked, then reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a creased sheet of paper. She smoothed it out, looked at it for a moment, then handed it to Penelope. Speaking to Stokes, Madeline said, “I would like to keep the letter.” Her gaze shifted to the sheet in Penelope’s hands. “Those are the last words Viola wrote to me.”

Stokes thought, then nodded. “I’ll make a copy, and you can have the original back.”

“Thank you,” Madeline murmured, her gaze on Penelope.

Having scanned the letter, Penelope opted to read it aloud. “ Dearest — please, I implore you, if you can at all manage it, come down to Ashmore as soon as you can. I have discovered that H is a monster! He has deceived me most dreadfully and betrayed my trust at the deepest level. I should have known better than to place any faith whatsoever in a snake such as he, but I was dazzled. Charmed! You’ll understand when I tell you his name! Please come immediately. I’m not sure how to manage the matter, but I am determined —determined is underlined three times— to see him pay for his perfidy! I need your wise counsel, my dear, and pray I will see you soon. Your loving sister, Viola.”

Barnaby had been studying Madeline, and in a deliberately matter-of-fact vein, observed, “It appears that your sister shot off the letter to you on Thursday morning and was killed on Thursday afternoon.”

Price put in, “Miss Viola gave Mrs. Gilroy the letter to post when she left here at noon, it being her half day off. Mrs. G was surprised there was another letter so soon, and she says that Miss Viola was bothered about something and muttering to herself, which is not something she normally did.”

“That’s true,” Madeline remarked.

Stokes had swiftly copied the letter and now handed it back to Madeline. “Purely for the record, Miss Huntingdon, and for completeness’s sake, is there anyone in London who can vouch for you being there on Thursday afternoon?”

Madeline all but glared, but refolding the letter, said, “My live-in maid, of course, and I met with my lodgers on Thursday in the late afternoon. They’d invited me to tea and wanted to hear my opinion on the barrow mound recently found on Salisbury Plain.”

Stokes’s lips twitched as he jotted down the information. “Thank you.” Then he looked up and asked, “Do you know of any local men with whom your sister recently had any disagreement?”

“Other than Lord Glossup and his dog, Viola has a long-running dispute with her neighbors, the Penroses. Over the past few years, Viola maintained that the Penrose orchard encroaches on Lavender Cottage land. Consequently, she felt justified in taking many of the apples from the offending trees. In turn, the Penroses accused her of stealing their apples. And so it went.” Madeline shrugged. “I don’t know the rights and wrongs of it, so I tried not to get involved. Other than that…” She paused, then rather reluctantly said, “Jim Swinson—he’s the Penroses’ man-of-all-work, but in his time off, he was Viola’s gardener. He worked for her twice a week, I believe, but they didn’t really get on. Not that I ever heard of any outright argument or any other reason for it, but there was always an undercurrent of irritation between them, and that went both ways.”

Barnaby noticed that Constable Price had been nodding in confirmation of much of what Madeline said. “Anyone else?” Barnaby asked.

Madeline sighed. “I hesitate to mention it, but Viola made…well, not quite accusations, more like hurtful observations about Mrs. Gilroy’s son, Billy. I could never fathom why Viola had taken so definitely against the lad, but I think that part of it was that Mrs. Gilroy is such a hard worker, and Billy certainly appears to be a layabout, scrounging off his mother rather than doing anything to help her. And again, the animosity between Viola and Billy was mutual, I would say, but on his part, it might simply have been a reaction to her nagging. I’ve heard Billy mouth off to Viola when he didn’t know I was there to hear, and in turn, she would get on her high horse and lecture him about being such a drain on his poor mother’s purse and so on.” Madeline paused, then added, “Viola could be quite pointed and hurtful at times, and although I don’t think she was actually malicious or intentionally vindictive, others could easily have taken her comments that way.”

Barnaby noted that Constable Price was, in general, still nodding along to the bulk of Madeline’s revelations.

“What about local friends?” Penelope asked. “You mentioned Mrs. Foswell, the minister’s wife.”

“Yes. Mrs. Foswell and Viola felt and thought along similar lines about many village matters, although I would say that Mrs. Foswell was generally more charitable. She tended to rein in Viola somewhat. Tact was never Viola’s strong suit. I know Viola was on nodding terms with Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper, but I’m unsure how deep in each other’s confidences they were. But Viola and Mrs. Foswell were close, so if anyone can tell you more about recent village happenings in my sister’s life, it will be Cynthia Foswell.”

Penelope nodded determinedly. “We’ll definitely be interviewing Mrs. Foswell.”

Stokes tapped his pencil on the open page of his notebook, then looked at Madeline. “That brings us to the matter of finances and the possibility that your sister’s wealth was a motive in her death.”

Madeline colored faintly but returned Stokes’s gaze levelly. “As I’m Viola’s only kin, then I assume her portion—what’s left of it—will come to me.” She glanced around. “Along with this cottage and the attached land, which isn’t all that extensive. I’m certain that she made no further will and that inheritance will be governed by our father’s will. However, I can assure you that I have no need of Viola’s money. I have my own funds and am hardly destitute.”

“Well,” Penelope prosaically pointed out, “if you own a house in Bedford Place, that’s obviously the case.”

Madeline’s expression as she nodded suggested she was pleased to have that clearly stated.

Stokes caught Madeline’s gaze. “Just so you are aware, we may need to confirm that with people in London. Purely by way of dotting our i’s and crossing our t’s.”

Madeline’s lips primmed, then she curtly said, “Check all you wish. You’ll find all I’ve said borne out. My man-of-business in London is Mr. Thomas Glendower, and I’m sure he’ll vouch for my financial standing.”

Penelope grinned, and Barnaby smiled. Even Stokes looked faintly amused.

Seeing their reaction, Madeline looked at them, openly puzzled.

Penelope explained, “We’re good friends with Thomas, and if you’re one of his clients, then I believe we can take your financial standing as read.”

Stokes also nodded. “I, too, am acquainted with Glendower, so yes, I accept that you being his client is sufficient testimony to you not coveting your sister’s portion.”

“Frankly,” Penelope said, “you being a client of Thomas’s only makes me more curious…” She broke off when Stokes shot a baleful glance her way, then grinned and concluded, “But perhaps that’s a discussion for another day.”

“Indeed.” Stokes shut his notebook and half bowed over the table to Madeline. “Thank you for your help, Miss Huntingdon. If you don’t mind, we would like to take a look at the parlor and the other rooms that were searched, and once we have, I can release them to you to tidy and clean as you wish.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Madeline inclined her head. “That would be much appreciated.”

Barnaby pushed away from the table, stood, and drew out Penelope’s chair.

“Constable Price,” Stokes said, making the young constable snap to attention. “If you would show us around?”

“Yes, of course, sir!” With an apologetic look at Madeline, Price moved to the closed door. “The parlor’s through here.”

Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes followed Price into the room. The curtains had been left open, as they would have been on the Thursday afternoon, and there was more than enough light streaming inside for them to appreciate the salient points.

Price outlined where the body had been found, on the rug about a yard before the hearth on the side closer to the window. A low table had clearly been nudged farther away from the fireplace, leaving the rug beneath it slightly rucked.

It was Madeline, who had come as far as the doorway and was standing with her arms wrapped about her, who drew their attention to the carriage clock lying broken on the mantelpiece. “I gather that was found on the floor, not far from Viola’s body.”

Penelope picked up the clock. Standing beside her, Barnaby saw the hands frozen at three-thirty-three, just as Carter had reported.

“The clock was our father’s, and Viola was very proud of it,” Madeline said. “She always kept it correctly set and wound. She checked it every morning without fail.”

Constable Price murmured, “Mrs. Gilroy said the same.”

With Penelope and Stokes, Barnaby scanned the room, taking in the bright chintz in a pattern of roses that covered the sofa and was repeated in the curtains. There was little else to see, and with a nod to Price to lead the way, Stokes followed him into the hall and up the stairs.

Rather more slowly, looking about her with her usual eye for detail, Penelope followed, and Barnaby followed her. After dithering for a moment, Madeline came slowly up the stairs in their wake.

Price led them to what was plainly the main bedroom of the cottage, and it was instantly apparent that the room had been thoroughly ransacked. The dresser drawers had been pulled out and upended and the clothes that had been in them flung about. All the items on the dressing table had been disarranged, but the search had been more careful and methodical there.

Viewing the scene, Penelope stated, “He went first to the dressing table, expecting to find the jewelry there, but then he panicked and searched furiously everywhere.”

From behind them, Madeline said, “That seems odd.” When they turned to look inquiringly at her, she moved forward and past them, going toward the bedside table that stood between the bed and one wall. She stopped before she reached the small table and pointed at a box on the floor. “Viola kept the bracelet in that box.”

A small blue-velvet-covered box, entirely empty, lay open and discarded on the rug.

Madeline pointed to the bedside table drawer, hauled out and flung against the wall. “She kept the box in that drawer.” Madeline tipped her head, regarding the box. “Surely, he would have searched the bedside drawer before the chest of drawers.” She turned to survey the clothes flung about the room. “So why bother with all this”—she flung out her hand—“and the mess elsewhere if he’d already found the jewelry he was after?”

For his part, Barnaby couldn’t think of a good answer.

Finally, Stokes said, “Sometimes, murderers are so angry they act irrationally. He might simply have thoroughly lost his temper.”

None of them, Barnaby suspected, felt entirely happy with that answer, but as there were no other clues waiting in the disarranged room or in the upended upstairs closet, within a few minutes, they were trooping back down the stairs.

“I wonder,” Penelope said as they gathered in the front hall, “whether there’s any way to trace the necklace.” She looked at Stokes. “The bracelet design sounds sufficiently unique that any jeweler who had been asked to duplicate such a piece would surely remember who had commissioned the work. Especially given that it was only done in September.”

Stokes stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Good point. That might well be why he was so keen to take the necklace—and the bracelet, too.” He looked at Madeline, who had followed them downstairs. “Can I trouble you to make a sketch of your sister’s missing bracelet?”

“Of course.” She appeared heartened to have something she could do that might help. “I’ll work on it tonight and have a sketch ready for you in the morning.”

“Thank you. We’ll leave you now, Miss Huntingdon, but if you don’t mind, I would feel considerably happier if you would allow Constable Price to put up here for the next few nights. I’ll have need of his knowledge of the locals and the area. He could return with us to the inn at Tollard Royal, where we’re staying, or remain with you as a guard, but I’m sincerely hoping you’ll agree to the latter. At this point, we can’t be sure that the only thing the murderer wanted was the jewelry. I would prefer not to risk him coming back for another look one night while you are the only one here.”

Madeline’s eyes had widened at Stokes’s words. She glanced at Price, then smiled weakly. “If you don’t mind staying, Constable, I admit I would feel more comfortable with someone else in the house.”

Price’s chest rose, and he saluted. “I’ll be honored to remain on guard, miss.” He looked at Stokes. “Inspector.”

“Excellent. But for now, Price,” Stokes said, “I would like you to take us to speak with the Penroses next door. Once we’re finished there, you can return to Lavender Cottage.” He looked at Madeline. “If that will suit?”

“That plan will suit admirably, Inspector.” Madeleine seemed to have reclaimed a degree of natural confidence. “I need some air, so will be going out for a short walk, but I’ll be back by six if not before.”

Stokes nodded, and Barnaby and Penelope took their leave, then the three of them followed Constable Price down the path, out of the gate, and along the lane to the cottage next door.