Page 5 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)
CHAPTER 4
P enelope followed Constable Price up the ruler-straight brick-paved path that led to the front door of the uninventively named Penrose Cottage.
The contrast between the front gardens of the neighboring cottages could not have been more marked. Where Lavender Cottage’s garden was whimsical, soft, and fluttery, this garden was bare clipped lawn with a single large beech tree, already mostly leafless, to the right of the path. Despite that, there was not a single leaf to be seen dotting the lawn, and the edges of the path had been recently trimmed with ruthless precision.
No softness, Penelope thought, and little delight.
She halted behind Constable Price when he stopped on the narrow porch and beat a crisp rat-a-tat-tat on the front door.
As the door opened, the young constable stepped back, and Penelope found herself facing a tallish middle-aged woman in a plain, dark-colored gown. Her graying hair was pulled back so tightly from her angular face that it almost made Penelope wince in sympathy. The woman’s dark eyes and sharp features set in a long face presently wearing a dour expression reminded Penelope of the garden—no softness, little delight. Indeed, everything about the woman screamed neat, no-frills practicality.
The woman’s dark gaze swept over their party, and before any of them could speak, she stated, “I’m Ida Penrose. Who are you?”
Stokes stepped up beside Penelope. “I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.” He proceeded to introduce Penelope and Barnaby, then said, “We would like a word with you, Mrs. Penrose, and also your husband, Arthur, and Jim Swinson, if he’s about.”
“Arthur and Jim are busy in the orchard out back,” Ida flatly stated.
Undeterred, Stokes replied, “In that case, perhaps we can have a word with you first. Inside would be preferable.”
Ida’s gaze went to the lane behind them, then returned to Stokes. “Of course.” She stepped back and waved them in. “I assume this is about that dreadful business with Viola Huntingdon.”
“Indeed,” Stokes replied.
Penelope urged Stokes to lead the way, and after throwing her a curious glance, he obliged, following Mrs. Penrose deeper into the hall. Penelope followed more slowly, using the moment to look about her. Somewhat to her surprise, she found the atmosphere in the cottage oddly stifling, as if the house had been closed up or the owners didn’t appreciate fresh air. As they followed Ida Penrose, with her determined stride and no-nonsense countrywoman’s attitude, into the cottage’s scrupulously neat parlor, Penelope judged the latter cause more likely.
Mrs. Penrose halted before one of the armchairs to one side of the fireplace and waved her visitors to the sofa and matching chair. Penelope claimed a place on the rather hard sofa, and with his customary elegance, Barnaby sat beside her. Stokes took the spare armchair, and Constable Price again elected to stand unobtrusively by the door.
After seeing her guests seated, Ida Penrose subsided onto her chair and bluntly stated, “I can’t see how I can help you. We never heard anything from next door on Thursday afternoon.” She eyed them intently. “That’s when she was done for, wasn’t it?”
“We believe so,” Stokes replied, setting his notebook on his knee. “However, we’re here to ask you for your opinion of Miss Huntingdon. Did you get along with her?”
Ida Penrose glanced at Constable Price, then returned her gaze to Stokes. “One doesn’t wish to speak ill of the dead.”
“Naturally not,” Penelope said. “But in this case, we need to learn about the victim in order to understand who might have murdered her, and I’m sure everyone in the village will be keen to see the murderer caught.”
Ida’s dark gaze had settled on Penelope, and Ida appeared to consider her words, then slowly, she inclined her head. “That’s true enough. So, it’s common knowledge that Viola Huntingdon was not an easy woman to like. She always insisted things had to be done the way she thought they ought, and her way was the only way, and she was the judge of it all. As if she was better than most of us villagers.” Ida’s face clouded. “For instance, she liked all those fussy flowers, and we don’t. My Arthur would have a conniption if we had an untidy garden like that. He doesn’t like untidiness.”
Well, Penelope thought, that was the front garden explained.
“But,” Ida went on, “Viola was forever sniping about people who had no pride in their property and how it just showed.” Ida paused, then added, “Mind you, she never said what it showed. She just used the issue to make a point.”
“I see.” Stokes was jotting in his book. “So in the main, your difficulties with Viola Huntingdon were over relatively minor matters—the usual sort of neighborly tensions.”
Ida thought, then allowed, “I suppose they were. Nothing I’d think to murder her for, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Stokes inclined his head in acceptance of the statement. “Purely for our records, where were you on Thursday afternoon?”
Ida paused as if thinking, then replied, “Thursday afternoon, I was here. I was in the kitchen baking scones, then I had Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper around for afternoon tea.” She focused on Stokes. “It was when they were leaving that they saw his lordship coming out from Lavender Cottage.”
His gaze on his writing, Stokes nodded. “Thank you.”
“Returning to the matter of gardens,” Penelope said, “we understand that your man-of-all-work, Jim Swinson, tended Miss Huntingdon’s garden. Did that cause any ructions?”
“Not really.” Ida had the sort of face on which expressions were muted and therefore hard to read. “Jim said it gave him flowers and such to work with. He’s one as likes to work outside, and he helps Arthur in the orchard and fields, so I can understand that it was a bit of something different for him, and he was only over there on his days off from us.”
“Did Jim and Viola Huntingdon get on?” Barnaby asked.
“Not especially,” Ida admitted. “They weren’t what you would call friendly to each other, but you’ll need to speak with Jim about that.”
Stokes asked, “Are you aware of any specific incident between Jim and Viola?”
Ida shook her head. “Not that I ever heard of, but Jim’s not one to say much about others, and Viola would never have said anything about any disagreement to me.”
“Very well. Now”—Stokes raised his head and fixed his gaze on Ida—“was there any specific cause of disagreement between your husband and Viola Huntingdon?”
Ida’s expression hardened, and she glanced, narrow-eyed, at Constable Price. “No doubt you’ve heard”—she swung her gaze back to Stokes—“that there was a disagreement between my Arthur and Viola Huntingdon about the boundary of the orchard. These are old parcels of land, and I don’t know how anyone can know the rights of such things, but Viola insisted that the boundary lay more over our way, which meant that the three most easterly rows of Arthur’s prize apple trees were on her land, not ours.”
Ida shook her head. “They’ve been on about it for months now, and no one knows who has the right of it, but with the season’s apples just in, there was such an argy-bargy outside the church Sunday before last that Reverend Foswell had to step between them and tell them both to go home and cool off. He told them once they’d calmed, they should sit down and sort it out once and for all. Not that they did.” Ida sighed heavily. “All the village is as sick of the to-do as I am.”
Stokes sent a questioning look at Barnaby and Penelope, one Penelope interpreted as wondering if Arthur Penrose or even some other irritated villager had thought to put an end to the dispute in a more direct and permanent fashion.
That was certainly something to ponder.
Stokes glanced at his notebook, then looked at Ida. “One last question, Mrs. Penrose. Did you see anyone acting suspiciously around Lavender Cottage in the days or even weeks prior to Miss Huntingdon’s death?”
Ida primmed her lips, then volunteered, “Depends on what you call suspicious. Over the past few weeks, I’ve seen some man—gentleman, he looked like—walking over the fields toward Viola’s cottage. He was never close enough that I could see who he was. There’s a gap in the trees, and when I’m standing at my sink, I can see across the fields a fair way. I couldn’t imagine why a gentleman would be taking the path through the fields, but I saw him clear as day at least three times.” She paused, then added, “I did note that it was always on the afternoons that Pat Gilroy had off.”
Ida focused on Stokes. “I mentioned seeing the bloke one day, and Jim said as he’d seen him, too. No surprise as Jim’s out in the fields more often than not. He might be able to tell you more.”
Stokes nodded. “Thank you. That might be relevant.” He looked up and faintly arched his brows at Barnaby and Penelope, but both shook their heads. They had no further questions for Ida Penrose.
Stokes returned his gaze to Ida. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Penrose. Now, if we go down to the orchard, I take it we’ll find your husband and Jim Swinson there.”
“Like as not,” Ida said, pushing to her feet. “But with the light waning, they’ll be packing up their tools and coming in soon.”
Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope rose.
With a smile, Stokes promised, “We won’t keep them long.”
They left Penrose Cottage via the back door and, with Constable Price assisting, followed Mrs. Penrose’s directions to a large, well-established, and healthy-looking orchard. The trees were old, their trunks gnarly, but they were plainly well cared for, pruned, shaped, and nurtured. Although by now all the fruit had been picked and carted away, the scents of ripe plums, apples, and pears still hung in the air.
Walking beside Penelope along the path between the rows of trees, Barnaby noted that their footsteps were deadened by the thick layer of fallen leaves. Consequently, they saw Jim Swinson and Arthur Penrose before the pair, who were busy gathering various tools and placing them in canvas slings, noticed them.
Eventually hearing their approach, the men glanced up, then put down their tools, straightened, and faced them.
Arthur Penrose was a short, slight, wiry man somewhere in his late forties, while Jim Swinson was much younger, perhaps twenty-two or -three, and was taller by a head and more. As broad as he was tall and solid with it, he was a strong, young working countryman. Both men were dressed in typical country worker’s garb of thick canvas trousers, warm shirt, and worn jacket, with heavy well-scuffed boots on their feet.
Constable Price hailed the pair, and when their group halted before the men, Price introduced Stokes, then Stokes introduced Barnaby and Penelope.
Although plainly curious, the men bobbed their heads respectfully and mumbled greetings.
Stokes calmly stated, “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, we’re here to investigate Miss Huntingdon’s death, and we’re currently gathering whatever information people have to share about the victim. As you know, she was murdered in her parlor last Thursday afternoon, at some point between twelve and four o’clock.”
Arthur Penrose’s rather shaggy brows rose. “That early, was it?”
“It seems likely,” Stokes said, “that Miss Huntingdon was dead at the time Lord Glossup called at her cottage at four-thirty, and she failed to come to the door.”
“Ah.” Jim Swinson nodded. “You know about his lordship calling, then, and his argument with Miss Huntingdon that morning.”
“Yes. We have heard about that,” Stokes replied. “What we’ve come here to ask is for confirmation, Mr. Penrose, of your ongoing disagreement with Miss Huntingdon over the boundary of your property.”
That was enough to get Arthur Penrose to share his angst in exhaustive detail. “She had no right, I tell you, but she took those apples before we got to them. It had to have been her, because who else could it have been, and smug as a goose, she was, when I asked her about it.”
He carried on at some length, arguing the minutiae of the competing claims, but although the matter plainly exercised his temper and was, to him, a deeply serious issue, Barnaby caught no hint of the sort of deep-seated fury that might prompt a man like Arthur Penrose to murder.
He was irritated and annoyed by Viola and her claim, but moved to murder?
Indeed, as short and slight as Arthur was, it was difficult to see how he could have strangled Viola Huntingdon. Arthur was only slightly taller than Penelope, who was distinctly petite. According to Carter, Viola Huntingdon had been of average height and her murderer taller still.
To strangle Viola, Arthur would have had to stand on a stool, and such a scenario really wouldn’t fly.
While Arthur continued with his plaint, Barnaby shifted his gaze to Jim Swinson. Jim could have committed the crime without the slightest difficulty. Just looking at him was enough to assure the observer that he was strong and able. He was also the type of quiet countryman of few words, stoic in the face of whatever life threw his way, and therefore very difficult to read.
Finally, Arthur wound down, and Stokes asked, “Where were you on Thursday afternoon, Mr. Penrose? We’re asking everyone in the village so that we know who was around about.”
Arthur looked at them, then shifted his gaze beyond them. Then he pointed farther along the row of trees, deeper into the orchard. “I was over thereabouts. Jim and I had got that far with the neatening and pruning.”
Barnaby swung around and surveyed the area, then turned back to Arthur. “So you and Jim were here all that afternoon?”
Arthur and Jim nodded, and Arthur confirmed, “Aye, until about now. We don’t waste daylight when we have a clear day, and Thursday last was clear.”
Stokes regarded the pair. “Were you always within sight of each other? Neither of you left at any time, even for just a few minutes?”
Arthur and Jim looked at each other, then both looked at Stokes and shook their heads.
“We were here together,” Jim said. “We were pruning those trees down there, and they’re old and the branches big enough that it’s easier to do with four hands. We’d’ve noticed if one of us wasn’t there.”
Arthur nodded. “We’d’ve had to stop, and that would’ve slowed us down. A lot.”
“Thank you.” Stokes turned his attention to Jim. “Given you were here, we can strike you out as a potential suspect as well. However, we understand that you worked for Miss Huntingdon for two days a week and that you weren’t entirely happy in her employ.”
Jim frowned, then offered, “It wasn’t the work—I was happy doing that. Her garden is different from here or from fields or orchards. It was always interesting, and I liked that. But she…well, she wasn’t what you would call nice. She was always finding fault, not with me and my work so much as with everyone around. She was forever complaining and carping about this or that as if she was better than all those hereabouts. I learned to switch off me ears, most of the time. Had to if I wanted to work in her garden, and I did. I had the time, and she paid well and promptly. She never tried to chouse me out of my coin, I will say that for her.”
“I see.” Stokes was furiously scribbling. “So it was her personality that was the issue—she grated on your nerves, so to speak.”
Jim nodded. “Aye, that’s it. But that’s not the sort of thing one kills over, is it?”
Stokes managed not to sigh. “No, and as I said, neither you nor Mr. Penrose are suspects. But we also wanted to ask you both if you’d noticed anyone lurking around Lavender Cottage in the weeks before Miss Huntingdon’s murder.”
Barnaby knew that Stokes and Penelope were as eager to hear what Jim would say as he was.
Jim didn’t disappoint. “There was this one bloke—a gentleman, I’d say, given how he was dressed and the way he walked. I’ve seen him over the past weeks, mayhap for over a month now, walking back and forth along the right-of-way at the back of Lavender Cottage. I never saw him close enough to say who he was, and I never actually saw him going into the cottage nor even into the rear garden—that’s screened by the woodland. But he was always headed that way or coming from that direction, so I don’t know where else he might have been going if it wasn’t to see Miss Viola.”
Arthur was nodding. “I was with Jim once when he saw the fellow. I caught just a glimpse, but like Jim said, he looked to be a gentleman heading for Lavender Cottage.” Arthur paused, then added, “If Viola had been a different sort of lady, I would’ve called around sometime and just asked about him—just checking in a neighborly way. But if I’d’ve asked her, she would likely have taken on about us spying on her or some such, so I didn’t say anything.” Arthur grimaced. “Now she’s been killed in such a way, no matter how obstreperous she was, I kind of wish I had.”
Stokes inclined his head. “Thank you both. That’s all very clear.”
Penelope finally spoke. “Do you remember what days you saw this man? Can you recall whether those were the days Mrs. Gilroy had off?”
“Well,” Jim said, “it was only four times that I saw him, and it was mostly afternoons, but I’m sure once was a Friday morning, and Mrs. Gilroy’s half days are on Thursday and Sunday afternoons.”
Arthur shifted and said, “But Pat Gilroy goes to the market on Friday mornings, so she’s not at the cottage then, either.”
“Oh, aye.” Jim nodded. “I’d forgotten about that.” He looked at Penelope. “I guess you could say that I only saw him when Mrs. G wasn’t at the cottage.”
“Thank you.” Stokes had written the information down. “Now, is there anything you know about Miss Huntingdon’s movements on the days before her death that was any different to what she normally might do?”
Jim frowned. “I’m not sure if this is what you want to know, but I drove her into Salisbury that Wednesday.”
“The day before she was killed?” Barnaby clarified.
Jim nodded. “I drove her into town about once a month, sometimes more often. Wednesday is one of my days off, and I have a gig, and she used to ask me to drive her in whenever she needed to go there. She didn’t have any other way to get to town unless she went with Mrs. Foswell in the Foswells’ carriage, and she sometimes did that, too. But last Tuesday, she asked me to drive her in on the Wednesday. As I’ve said, that wasn’t unusual, and she was in her usual mood on the way there. If anything, I’d’ve said she was eager and looking forward to doing something in town. I dropped her off where I always do, at the nearest corner of the market. I’ve a mate who works at the Hare and Hounds, and I always go there for a pint and a bite and a chinwag while I wait for Miss Viola to do whatever she was there to do.”
“Last Wednesday”—Stokes was scribbling furiously—“was she there for long?”
“Well, she said she’d be just an hour, and I was to pick her up at the same spot I left her—by the market cross. I got there at the right time, and she’s usually waiting ready to go, but not that time. I waited, and eventually she rushed up, more than half an hour late. That was odd. And she was out of breath, too—I could see she’d been hurrying—and that wasn’t normal for her, either. Very cool and correct, she was. Never flustered, yet she was that time.”
“Did she say anything about what had happened?” Penelope asked.
“Or about what she’d done or where she’d gone in Salisbury?” Barnaby added.
But Jim shook his head. “She never did speak to me much. That was just her way. She didn’t talk to staff unless she wanted to, and in general, I suppose, she didn’t believe we was worth sharing things with.” He paused, clearly thinking back, then added, “Mind you, this time—last Wednesday—the way she sat there, all bottled up, I thought that at any moment, she was going to burst into tears or start raving at something. And the farther we drove, the more she grew…I think it was angry? Angry and upset with it. But by the time we rolled into the village, she’d swallowed it all back down, I’d say. Just pushed whatever she was feeling down inside and locked it away, but it still seemed like, inside, she was a powder keg ready to blow, yet she was determined to behave normally on the outside.”
Jim suddenly looked faintly embarrassed. “That’s just me talking, mind. She didn’t say anything about her feelings to me. And that was the last I saw of her. She paid me as usual, then she turned and hurried up the path—and she didn’t normally hurry, especially not like that, with her shoulders all hunched up and looking down but not seeming to see.”
Barnaby was quietly amazed by just how observant and insightful Jim Swinson had been. It just went to show one shouldn’t assume those who were quiet didn’t pay attention.
Stokes had been jotting madly. Finally, he looked up and shut his notebook. “Thank you. Your information is likely to be very helpful. Aside from all else, we now know that Miss Huntingdon went to Salisbury on the day before she died, and there, she learned something that overset her.”
“Aye.” Jim nodded. “She did that.”
Stokes thanked both men again, and Barnaby and Penelope echoed his words, then they left Arthur and Jim to finish gathering their tools and, with Constable Price, headed out of the orchard.
As they rounded the house and crossed the front lawn, passing under the leafless beech, Penelope juggled the new facts into some semblance of order in her mind. The shadows were lengthening as they passed through the gate and stepped into the lane.
A well-dressed lady garbed all in black had been walking toward the junction, but at the sound of the gate swinging, she halted and whirled, then seeing them, she came striding back.
Their party halted, and Constable Price murmured, “Mrs. Foswell, the minister’s wife.”
“Good afternoon,” Mrs. Foswell called as soon as she was within speaking range. “I’m Mrs. Foswell, and Viola Huntingdon was a dear friend. I’ve just come from the cottage. I thought to call on poor Madeline and ensure she has all she needs, but she appears to be out. That said, I had also hoped to come across you.” She paused, then asked, “You are the investigators sent to find Viola’s murderer?” She immediately answered herself, “Of course you are.” She nodded to Price. “William.”
The young constable knew his role and promptly introduced Stokes, who then did the honors for Barnaby and Penelope.
Mrs. Foswell looked suitably impressed as she exchanged nods. “I’m sure Viola would feel relieved to know her sad death will be investigated by such senior people. Now”—she stood straighter, raising her chin to a commanding angle—“I want to render whatever help I can. This is a small village, and that such an incident could occur within our community is quite shocking. It simply cannot be tolerated.”
Penelope felt Stokes’s elbow nudge into her side. “Thank you, Mrs. Foswell.” Penelope could already see some of what the minister’s wife and Viola Huntingdon had had in common. “Would that everyone was as forthcoming when we seek to investigate a crime. In this instance, at this point, it would be most helpful if you could share your view of the deceased. We’ve been given to understand that Miss Huntingdon wasn’t universally appreciated.”
Mrs. Foswell sighed. “No, indeed. That’s quite true, although it was purely because Viola not just saw but commented on people’s shortcomings. She saw that as her role—to help people face their faults and therefore fix them. She wasn’t one to let what she saw as bad or inadequate behavior slide by unremarked. She had quite high standards, both for herself and for those about her.” Mrs. Foswell’s expression grew resigned. “Sadly, Viola wasn’t the most tactful person in her interactions with others.”
Penelope thought those comments neatly summarized all they’d heard of Viola’s behavior. Tact had definitely been something she’d lacked. Penelope ventured, “We’ve heard that you were Viola’s closest friend. Madeline has told us of the gentleman Viola had written to her about, the one who had recently come into her life. Did Viola mention anything of that man to you?”
Mrs. Foswell’s expression grew faintly hurt. “No. She never mentioned such a person at all.” She drew breath, paused, then said, “Frankly, I was surprised to hear of this mystery man. I’ve seen the letter Madeline received, and while I hesitate to suggest such a thing, I have to wonder if, perhaps, the man wasn’t a figment of Viola’s imagination. Something to make herself sound more interesting to her sister, who I believe Viola was just a touch jealous of, and then she further embellished the fiction to make herself seem even more dramatic.” Mrs. Foswell looked meaningfully at Penelope. “If you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I see.” Penelope considered Mrs. Foswell’s suggestion for all of three seconds, but the man seen striding across the fields had been real, and whoever strangled Viola had certainly not been imaginary. “On another point,” Penelope went on, “we’ve heard of Viola’s aquamarine bracelet. Do you recall seeing it?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Foswell proceeded to give a decent description that matched what Madeline had told them. “Viola wore the piece whenever she went anywhere beyond the cottage.”
“Did you see the matching necklace Viola told her sister her admirer had given her?” Penelope asked.
Mrs. Foswell’s features pinched, hurt once again surfacing. “No. I never saw any necklace, just the bracelet.”
Penelope smiled at the older woman. “Thank you for your frankness, Mrs. Foswell. You’ve given us quite a few points to ponder.”
“Yes, well.” Mrs. Foswell appeared somewhat mollified. “If there’s anything else I or David—Reverend Foswell—can help with, please do call on us.”
Stokes assured her they would do so, and they parted with good wishes all around.
Stokes commended Constable Price for his assistance that day and dispatched him to stand guard at Lavender Cottage, then with Barnaby and Penelope, turned toward their carriage, still waiting in the lane.
As they walked, Penelope mused, “In actual fact, in one afternoon of investigating, we’ve learned quite a lot.”
“But how it all fits,” Barnaby said, reaching for the carriage door, “and who the man who strangled Viola Huntingdon is remains very much up in the air.”
“I vote,” Stokes said, “that we get ourselves to the comfort of the King John Inn, then after a good dinner to replenish our reserves, we put our heads together and see what we can make of what we’ve learned.”
Madeline stood on the front porch of Glossup Hall and stared at the impressively solid dark-green-painted door.
Lord Glossup’s residence was significantly larger than she’d imagined, a sprawling Elizabethan mansion with two wide wings stretching away on either side of a central block topped with a tower. The redbrick facade faced south and boasted three stories topped by a lead roof edged with a crenelated balustrade beyond which a plethora of tall chimneys with ornate pots reached skyward. The last red rays of the setting sun reflected off the mullioned windows as Madeline glanced back, across the circular forecourt to the mouth of the tree-lined drive she’d taken after following Ashmore’s High Street southward.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon, and it was getting quite dark. She should have waited until tomorrow, but the need to get her apology to his lordship done and off her chest had compelled her, and she’d set out for the Hall without any real thought for how long it would take to reach the place.
She didn’t think anyone had noticed her arrival. She could leave and return tomorrow, and no one would be the wiser.
But that would mean another night of amorphous guilt weighing on her soul.
She turned back to the door, drew in a deep breath, and lips firming, grasped the bell chain and tugged.
She fidgeted and waited, then the door was opened by a kindly-looking butler.
He smiled at her as if finding unknown ladies on the doorstep was nothing new. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Can I help you?”
Madeline raised her chin a notch and announced, “My name is Miss Huntingdon, and I would like to speak with Lord Glossup.” After a second, she added, “If that’s possible.”
The butler bowed. “I will inquire of his lordship, but please, Miss Huntingdon, do come inside.”
Madeline stepped across the threshold, expecting a dark and gloomy interior. Instead, the high-ceilinged front hall was well-lit by windows in the tower above, giving the space a surprisingly airy quality.
“Your coat and bonnet, miss?”
“Oh yes.” Madeline unbuttoned and shrugged out of her fashionable redingote and unpinned and handed the butler her bonnet.
He took both and set them on the coatrack, then led her to an open door that gave onto a comfortable and—given its size—remarkably cozy drawing room. “If you will take a seat, ma’am, I will let his lordship know you’ve called.”
With an acquiescent dip of her head, Madeline moved into the room and heard the door quietly shut behind her. Curious, she looked around. Her first impression was one of quiet gentility, the sort that sees no need to prove itself to anyone. The room was long and furnished with well-padded armchairs and sofas. She walked to the far end, where a large hearth topped by a massive stone mantelpiece played host to a good-sized fire. A sofa set perpendicular to the flames seemed the most appropriate perch, and she sank onto the satin-covered cushion and arranged her skirts, then clasped her hands in her lap and prepared to wait for however long his lordship decreed with some semblance of patience.
Almost a penance. She glanced at the large ormolu clock squatting at the center of the mantelpiece and saw the time was nearing five-thirty.
The click of the doorlatch had her looking toward the door, expecting to see the butler returning.
Instead, Henry, Lord Glossup, stepped tentatively into the room, his gaze fixing on her rather trepidatiously.
Oh! He doesn’t know if I’m here to rail at him or…
Madeline rose and blurted, “Thank you for seeing me, especially at this odd hour. I simply had to come and apologize for my unconscionable, ill-considered, and utterly wrongheaded outburst on Sunday. I shouldn’t have listened to those silly rumors, and I’m most dreadfully sorry for any wounds I might have unthinkingly caused.”
She immediately felt better for having got the words out. They hadn’t been any part of her stuffy rehearsed apology, but she felt the uncensored words had expressed her feelings more accurately.
His lordship’s relief was evident in his expression. The tight lines relaxed, and as he came forward with greater confidence, with a firm stride and upright posture, Madeline got the distinct impression of a kindly man, but not a weak one—the quiet sort that people often referred to as the backbone of the counties.
He halted two yards away and half bowed. “Miss Huntingdon. In the circumstances, I’m delighted to welcome you to Glossup Hall.” He smiled as he straightened, and the gesture warmed his brown eyes. “Perhaps we might start afresh.”
She eyed him, then said, “I need to know that you accept my apology. I very much needed to make it, and my only excuse for my deplorable words was that I was laboring under considerable and entirely unexpected grief, and to be truthful, I was so very angry at whoever had so cruelly taken Viola from this world that I allowed those emotions to temporarily overcome my better judgment. I pray you’ll forgive?—”
He waved his hand as if sweeping the air between them clear. “I quite understand, and your apology is gratefully accepted. And while I admit I found the incident regrettable, I sincerely hope we can put it behind us. In that vein”—he waved her to the sofa—“please allow me to offer you some refreshment. If you walked all this way from the village, you can surely do with a small glass of sherry.”
The latter was a question, and sinking onto the satin sofa, Madeline discovered she was, indeed, parched. “Thank you. That would be most welcome.”
As she watched him walk to the tantalus against one wall, she realized that while she’d rehearsed her apology, she hadn’t thought of what would come after.
He returned with two glasses of golden liquid and handed one to her. She took it and wondered why she didn’t find the situation impossibly awkward; she would have predicted she would.
As his lordship moved to claim the armchair opposite, she sipped the unsurprisingly excellent amontillado and hoped its rich smoothness was a portent for how the rest of her visit would go.
After settling in the armchair, he fixed his gaze on her and said, “You must remember that I, of all people, fully comprehend the…shall we say confusion that strikes one when someone close is shockingly murdered. One doesn’t see it coming—not at all—and so is entirely unprepared for all the conflicting and often violent and irrational emotions that arise. Such as”—his lips quirked wryly—“that our nearest-and-dearest victim should have known better and somehow avoided their fate.”
Madeline lowered her glass and stared at him. All she could manage was a whispered “Yes.”
“And the next thought,” he went on, “that grows to an obsession is whether there was anything one might have done, or done differently, that would have changed the outcome.”
“Exactly,” Madeline breathed. He was patently sincere, and clearly, he was speaking from his own experience. And he’d put his finger squarely on the thoughts that had initially crowded her mind.
Henry sipped and studied his unexpected guest and was aware of an impulse—almost a compulsion—to prolong her visit. “I understand you live in London, yet I’m sure I’ve glimpsed you here, at the church and around the village, on several occasions before.”
She nodded. “I visit—visited—Viola several times each year.” She paused, then admitted, “It seems so strange that she won’t be here next time I come down.”
“You’ll keep the cottage?” Henry almost blushed and hurried to say, “Forgive me if I’ve presumed, but I assume there are no other close relatives, and you will inherit?”
“Yes, that’s correct. And honestly, I’m rather torn.” She paused, sipped, then continued, “Although in recent years—well, the past five—I’ve made my home in London, my roots are, if not in this village, then in this area.”
“You were born and raised here?”
She nodded. “In Salisbury.”
Madeline didn’t quite know how it happened, but prompted by gentle and unassuming questions, she found herself telling his lordship about her early life in Salisbury growing up as the daughter of the minister of St. Edmund’s Church. “Our mother died when I was quite young, and despite Papa’s best efforts, my upbringing was rather constrained by circumstance. But Papa always encouraged us to think and live in the wider world, which I took to heart more than Viola. She was content with living quietly, while I wanted to experience at least a little more of life. That’s why, after Papa died, she came here while I went to London.”
His lordship was regarding her without the slightest judgment and an expression that stated he was interested in learning more about her, the person.
She found that look more intoxicating than his sherry.
Consequently, when he rather boldly observed, “I own to being surprised no gentleman managed to persuade you to be his bride,” she laughed and answered, “Several attempted it, but a lucky escape from a fortune hunter when I was quite young and still in Salisbury rather colored my view of gentlemen and taught me to be duly careful and discerning over those who came calling.”
She paused, then added, “Indeed, that lucky escape was in part the reason why, when Papa’s death left me able to make a choice, rather than seeking to marry, I opted to go to London and set about making a life of my own, one that didn’t rely on any man for its meaning.”
“That was forward-thinking of you.” Unexpected approval rang in his lordship’s tone.
To her surprise, Madeline found herself confessing, “I sometimes think I should feel grateful to that long-ago fortune hunter. He knew I would eventually be wealthy through inheritance and that I was besotted with him, but he found my independent ways too challenging and so rejected me. At least he was honest enough to do that rather than condemn us both to an unhappy union. Strange to say, I ran into him recently for the first time in seventeen years, and I…well, felt absolutely nothing for him. He was just someone I knew from long ago. I hadn’t realized my youthful emotions had been so shallow.”
His lordship nodded. “I had much the same revelation when my late wife died. We’d married young, and back then, I thought she was the love of my life. But once she died, I realized that while I felt inexpressibly sorry for her, I didn’t feel devastated. She hadn’t touched my heart in the way or to the depth that I’d thought she had, and so her death didn’t matter to me in the fundamental, life-shattering way I had assumed it would.”
Regarding him, Madeline smiled gently, understandingly. “It seems we’ve both learned that, when young, we think we know our hearts, but we really don’t.”
“Indeed.” He sipped, then lowering the glass, asked, “Tell me of your life in London. Where in the capital do you live?”
Madeline readily sketched the bare bones of her life. Quite why she took the chance, she couldn’t have said, but she concluded with the information, “I discovered that, like Papa, I had a propensity for investing. Almost a calling. I went looking for those who might help me, and being a female, that list wasn’t long, but I found that some of the best firms have no barriers over whom they are willing to work with, and over the years, I’ve done rather well.”
His lordship chuckled. “I have several female acquaintances who I will readily admit know more about investing and running major businesses than I do.” He paused, then said, “If you meet the Adairs, as I’m sure you will, given they are assisting Inspector Stokes with this present case, I predict you and Penelope will get along famously. She and her friends are very much of the same independent ilk as you appear to be.”
Madeline was fascinated. “I have met Mrs. Adair, although our exchange was confined to matters relating to Viola’s murder. Nevertheless, Mrs. Adair and, indeed, her presence did strike me as being rather unusual.”
His lordship laughed. “Unusual is the least of it.”
She tipped her head. “Do you know the Adairs well?”
“Quite well, and although I admit that I appealed to them for assistance with resolving this case, their involvement is actually at the behest of the commissioner of Scotland Yard.”
“They mentioned as much, and I have to say that’s quite intriguing.” The clock on the mantelpiece chimed discreetly, and Madeline was surprised to realize she’d been chatting to his lordship for half an hour. She didn’t know what it was about him that she found so relaxing or so inviting of her confidences. “Good heavens! I’ve taken up quite enough of your time.” She leaned across and set down her empty glass on the side table.
He rose as she did. “It’ll be dark outside. I realize I won’t be able to persuade you to stay for dinner, but I really must insist on driving you to the rectory.”
She had to admit, “I’ve moved back to Lavender Cottage.”
“Even more reason, then. That’s even farther, and after all, we have a murderer somewhere near.”
She hadn’t thought of that, but now he’d mentioned it…and he looked utterly determined to prevail. Graciously, she inclined her head. “Very well, your lordship. You may drive me home.”
He beamed. “Excellent! And please, call me Henry.”
As he went to tug the bellpull, Madeline realized she was smiling. Smiling and much more settled inside than she had been since she’d arrived in the village.