Page 6 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)

CHAPTER 5

I n their private parlor at the King John Inn, Barnaby settled beside Penelope on the old-fashioned settle angled before the fireplace and looked questioningly at Stokes as his old friend sank into the armchair opposite.

Stokes sighed contentedly. “This inn seems to have only improved since I was last here. That dinner was excellent.”

“It was,” Penelope agreed. “I feel quite energized, mentally speaking.” She glanced at Barnaby, then at Stokes. “Should we begin by going over all the facts we’ve gleaned?”

“I believe,” Barnaby suggested, “that it would help to construct a time line of events, such as we know them.”

“Agreed,” Stokes said. “Let’s start with when this ‘secret admirer, H,’ came into our victim’s life. When was that?”

Penelope duly supplied, “According to her sister, it had to have been sometime in August, after Madeline returned to London. It was later in August when Viola started mentioning H in her letters to Madeline.”

“Let’s say mid-August as the time H first made contact,” Barnaby said. “It’s mid-October now, so we’re looking at the passage of less than two months.”

Stokes had pulled out his notebook and was flipping through the pages. “A fast worker, then, this H.”

“Well,” Penelope reminded them, “Viola described him as amazingly charming.”

“So since mid-August,” Barnaby said, “H has been visiting Viola at the cottage.”

“That seems likely.” Penelope frowned and glanced at Stokes, then looked at Barnaby. “But where did they first meet? It can’t have been anywhere obvious in the village, much less at the cottage door.”

Eyes narrowing in thought, Stokes ventured, “Salisbury, perhaps. It’s the only other place Viola visited regularly, and sometimes, she was there alone.”

Barnaby nodded. “Shopping or whatever else she went there to do. Given she was a Salisbury native, her area of interaction could have been quite wide.”

“I would say that we should ask Mrs. Foswell,” Penelope said, “but she was quite put out that she knew nothing of this H, and I think she would have leapt to tell us if, when she was visiting Salisbury with Viola, she’d ever met any man who might be him.”

Stokes grimaced. “I agree. This H has been very careful not to be seen by others.”

“Except at a distance.” Barnaby looked at Penelope. “I assume we’re working on the supposition that the gentleman seen by several villagers walking over the fields toward the cottage is, indeed, Viola’s ‘secret admirer, H.’”

Penelope admitted, “In general, I don’t like making such assumptions, yet in this case, given he was seen approaching only at times when Viola would have been alone, I think it’s reasonable to make the connection.”

Stokes shifted, getting more comfortable. “That he’s taken such pains to avoid all others certainly paints this H in an exceedingly suspicious light.”

“True,” Barnaby said. “But let’s return to our time line. Beyond the mention of H in Viola’s letters and the sightings of him across the fields, we have no incidents of note until this past Wednesday, when Jim Swinson drove Viola into Salisbury, and while she was there, it seemed a great deal changed.”

Penelope nodded. “She sent a letter to her sister on Wednesday morning, and at that point, according to Viola, all in her life was rosy.”

“We shouldn’t forget that Madeline thought Viola was expecting H to propose,” Stokes said.

“So,” Penelope said, “Viola was likely expecting to see H quite soon, meaning the next time she would be alone, which was Thursday afternoon.”

“But something she learned in Salisbury shattered her expectations.” Barnaby looked at Stokes. “You could say that the scales wrought by charm had been ripped away.”

Stokes was nodding. “We need to learn where she went in Salisbury—who she met with, what she heard, and what she then knew.”

“That’s not going to be easy,” Barnaby observed. “Salisbury is a large and busy town, and as she was a native born and bred, her acquaintance could be extensive.”

Penelope grimaced. “And she was away—out of sight of Jim Swinson—for at least an hour and a half.”

“Let’s leave the question of what happened in Salisbury for now,” Stokes said, “and continue with our time line.” He looked at Barnaby and Penelope. “We’re up to the point of her leaving Salisbury. What happened next?”

Penelope obliged. “Jim Swinson said she was upset from that point on, as if she grew angrier and angrier but was doing her best to hide it.”

“Indeed,” Barnaby said. “And when she reached home, with a personality such as hers, she very likely spent the evening and night stewing over whatever she’d learned.”

“Then the next morning”—Penelope took up the tale—“she wrote the urgent letter to Madeline and gave it to Mrs. Gilroy to post when she left at noon for her half day off.”

A moment of silence fell, then Stokes said, “I think we have to assume that Viola was expecting H to call that afternoon.”

“In her shoes,” Penelope said, “I would have sent a note and put him off, at least until I’d had time to consult with Madeline and she was present to act as support, and that Viola didn’t do so suggests that she had no way of contacting H.”

Barnaby nodded. “She didn’t know where he lives.”

“That realization alone must have been disconcerting.” Stokes scribbled the point in his notebook. “Clearly, H was running some sort of swindle—everything points to that.”

“Hmm.” Penelope looked thoughtful. “What if her expectations of a proposal were correct, and he was planning to marry her for her money?” She frowned. “But why, then, if he was indeed wooing her, be so secretive?”

“I suspect,” Barnaby cynically said, “that when we learn who he is, we’ll have the answer to that.”

“Apropos of his identity,” Penelope said, “there’s that line in Viola’s letter that suggests that Madeline will recognize the man’s name and will understand why Viola shouldn’t have trusted him.” She looked at Barnaby and arched a brow. “Possibly someone from their shared past?”

Stokes huffed. “Likely someone they knew by reputation from their years in Salisbury.”

“Madeline seemed to have no idea who the man might be,” Barnaby said.

“No point speculating at this stage,” Stokes said. “Let’s get back to facts. Where were we?” He consulted his notebook. “All right. So on Thursday at noon, Mrs. Gilroy leaves Viola at the cottage and takes the letter to the post. We don’t have any information about Viola’s movements from that point until she was found dead the next morning by Mrs. Gilroy when she returned to the cottage.”

Barnaby said, “We suspect that H called at the cottage on Thursday afternoon, but did he?”

Penelope put in, “We do know that she was dead by four-thirty, when Henry called, and if we accept the evidence of the clock, which seems reasonable, then she died at three-thirty-three or thereabouts.” She looked at Stokes. “Did Morgan or O’Donnell check Henry’s alibi?”

Stokes nodded. “They did, and he was, indeed, here for lunch and left about three, as he said. And Morgan borrowed a horse and rode down to the farm Henry said he’d called at after leaving here, and the farmer was clear that Henry was there and left about four, again as Henry told us.”

“So Henry’s clear on firm evidence.” Penelope was pleased. “He couldn’t have been anywhere near Lavender Cottage at three-thirty-three.”

“And,” Barnaby said, “I think we can cross Arthur Penrose and therefore Jim Swinson off our list of potential suspects as well.”

“I daresay Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper can alibi Ida Penrose as well as each other.” Penelope looked at Stokes. “Who do we have left?”

“Aside from H?” Stokes consulted his notes. “We need to interview Mrs. Gilroy—she was, after all, the last person to see Viola alive—and her son, who apparently had a long-running disagreement with Viola. And at this point, we need to allow for someone we’ve yet to get wind of.”

“We do know that the house was ransacked,” Barnaby pointed out. “Whether by the murderer or someone else, we can’t yet say, but the fact that only the bracelet and the necklace that H gave Viola are missing and other potentially more valuable jewelry was left behind strongly suggests that the ransacking, at least, was done by H.”

“Indeed,” Penelope agreed. “But while he’s obviously the prime suspect for the ransacking and stealing, we can’t yet be certain that he was the one who strangled Viola. He might have arrived after the murderer had fled, and H realized the pieces would implicate him and retrieved them.”

Stokes grunted. “The simplest solution is usually correct. For my money, the most likely option is that H, realizing that Viola had seen through his scheme and wasn’t about to fall like a ripe plum into his hand, lost his temper and strangled her, then ransacked the house and removed the telltale jewelry.”

“That raises two points,” Barnaby said. “First, why strangle her rather than simply shrug and walk away? And as for the jewelry, if he didn’t kill her, why bother with that?”

They fell silent for a moment, then Penelope answered, “Because he did kill her—although yes, I agree, I can’t quite see why—but having killed her, he then realized that the jewelry is, as Stokes described it, telltale. He must have commissioned some jeweler to copy the bracelet and make the necklace to match, and therefore, the jeweler will be able to identify him.”

Stokes was nodding. “Our prime suspect is this secret admirer, H. Taking the jewelry—just those two pieces and not the other valuables—only makes sense if he was the one who murdered Viola.”

Barnaby pulled an undecided face. “Or he found Viola dead and feared the jewelry would implicate him.”

Stokes wrinkled his nose. “Spoilsport.” Then he sighed. “That said, you’re right. H might not be our murderer, but I still contend he is our prime suspect.”

“Whoever he is,” Penelope said.

“By all accounts,” Stokes said, “he’s a gentleman?—”

“Or can pass for one,” Barnaby put in.

Stokes inclined his head. “Seen from a distance, he’s tallish, lean, dark-haired. In fact, he could be Henry, although we know it isn’t him.”

Barnaby and Penelope nodded.

After a moment, Stokes went on, “If I was H, I would be long gone, but regardless, we have to make every effort to identify him. The only concern I have with us chasing him down is if, in doing so, we overlook a murderer nearer to hand. And no, I don’t know who that might be, yet nevertheless, we need to bear that possibility in mind.”

“So,” Barnaby asked, “what’s our next step?”

Penelope promptly stated, “We need to learn where Viola went in Salisbury on Wednesday. Who she visited and what she learned that so upset her. Was it that knowledge that led to her death?” She paused, then, frowning, went on, “Because of what she wrote in her Thursday letter to Madeline about H, we’ve assumed that what she learned in Salisbury—the reason she was so upset and, later, angry—was wholly to do with him, but what if it wasn’t?” She looked at Barnaby, then at Stokes. “What if everything to do with H is purely coincidental and nothing more than a distraction that’s getting in the way of us seeing the murderer more clearly?”

Stokes snorted. “That’s precisely what I’m worried about. I therefore suggest that, before we divert our attention to what Viola did in Salisbury, our next step should be to interview the remaining potential suspects and any likely sources of information in the village and find out as much as we can about Viola, enough, at least, to know if there’s someone of potential significance of whom we’ve yet to hear.”

Barnaby said, “We have the Gilroys, mother and son, and it might be useful to speak with Reverend Foswell. Especially in country villages, men of God often have more insight into their parishioners’ states of mind than one might think.”

Stokes made a note. “He might be able to steer us toward someone we’ve thus far missed.”

“And once we’ve checked with all those in the village”—Penelope brightened—“we can head to Salisbury.”

Barnaby and Stokes both smiled at her fondly.

Stokes said, “You really think the answer lies there, don’t you?”

“I’m sure,” Penelope declared, “that whatever caused Viola such emotional turmoil is more or less the root cause of her murder. As far as we know, that was the only major upheaval in her relatively humdrum life, and what’s more, it occurred immediately prior to her murder.”

Barnaby studied his wife. “Do you think that whatever she learned meant she had to be silenced before she told anyone else?”

Penelope’s dark eyes widened. “I hadn’t followed the thought to that conclusion, but it is one possible implication, isn’t it?” After two seconds of considering the prospect, she looked at Stokes. “Perhaps Constable Price should remain guarding Madeline Huntingdon until we have this murderer by the heels.”

Stokes’s expression hardened. “That’s an excellent idea.”

The following morning, they left Sergeant O’Donnell and Connor, the Adairs’ groom, to hold the fort at the inn, while Constable Morgan went with them, riding on the carriage’s box seat beside the coachman, Phelps.

As the coach rumbled along the country lanes, Stokes observed, “It’s a pity there’s no village pub in Ashmore to which we can send Morgan for information. His talents are wasted in a place like this.”

The baby-faced Morgan was well known for teasing all sorts of useful information from serving girls and patrons alike. Barnaby smiled in agreement, and Penelope said, “Morgan, and Connor, too, will be of more use to us in Salisbury. I suspect we’ll have quite a bit of searching to do to determine where Viola went last Wednesday.”

Stokes grimaced. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to that. We’ll be casting about, searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

They rattled around a corner, and as the carriage righted, Penelope glanced out of the window beside her. The northernmost cottages of Ashmore rolled past, then the carriage slowed and turned again, and the pond and green were beside them. Seconds later, Phelps drew the carriage to a halt beside the hedge of Lavender Cottage.

Stokes opened the door and stepped out, but Barnaby and Penelope remained seated. They were only stopping to collect Constable Price, so he could assist them in their interviews with the Gilroys, and leave Morgan in his place so that Madeline Huntingdon continued to be suitably guarded.

As Stokes approached the gate and Morgan jumped down from the box seat, Constable Price, neat and precise in his uniform with his cap under his arm, came briskly down the path from the front door. Smiling with eagerness, he halted before the gate and saluted Stokes.

His lips not quite straight, Stokes acknowledged Price with a nod.

Price lowered his hand. “All quiet here, Inspector. No dramas, and nothing to report.”

“Good.” Stokes started to turn toward Morgan, but Price drew out a folded sheet and offered it.

“Miss Madeline asked me to give this to you, sir. It’s a sketch of the bracelet that’s gone missing.”

“Ah. Thank you.” Stokes took the sheet and unfolded it. After a cursory glance, he stepped back to the carriage and, through the open door, handed the sheet to Penelope.

She took it and immediately fell to studying the drawing, with Barnaby looking over her shoulder.

Meanwhile, Stokes returned to Morgan and Price. “We need to interview the Gilroys, and for that, Price, we need you with us.” Stokes nodded to Morgan. “Constable Morgan will relieve you here.”

Stokes paused, then addressing both constables, went on, “We’ve realized it’s possible Viola Huntingdon was murdered because of something she learned during her visit to Salisbury last Wednesday. If so, then the murderer might assume she could have written of the matter to her sister, and therefore, he needs to silence Madeline Huntingdon as well. Consequently, until we have our murderer by the heels, we’ll be maintaining a round-the-clock guard on Miss Huntingdon.”

Price straightened. “Yes, sir.” His expression had sobered, as had Morgan’s.

Focusing on Morgan, Stokes added, “Don’t leave Miss Huntingdon unattended and out of your sight for any reason whatsoever. We’ll be back to fetch you after we’ve finished our interviews with the locals.”

Morgan saluted. “Yes, guv.”

Penelope folded the sketch and tucked it into her reticule as Stokes returned to the carriage with Price, and Morgan walked up the path and ducked through the cottage’s front door.

Stokes paused beside the open carriage door, glanced at Price, and tipped his head toward the box seat. “Climb up and direct Phelps to the Gilroy cottage. I assume it’s nearby?”

Eagerly making for the box seat, Price replied, “Yes, sir. It’s back past the pond and along the High Street, then around the next corner in Halfpenny Lane.”

Stokes nodded and rejoined Penelope and Barnaby in the carriage. As soon as the door was shut, Phelps expertly turned the carriage, making a neat job of it despite the narrowness of the lane. Then they were off, rolling past the pond and around to the south on High Street. They passed the church and the rectory, then the carriage turned left again, this time into a very narrow, more rutted lane.

Luckily, the Gilroys’ cottage was, as Price had said, just around the corner.

Stokes got down first, followed by Barnaby, who turned and gave Penelope his hand. She gripped it and climbed down into the lane. After shaking out her skirts, she looked ahead and found a modest and rather ancient-looking cottage before them.

As they walked toward the simple wooden gate, she took in all she could see. Despite its age, the cottage appeared as well cared for as it could be, with whitewashed walls and paintwork in good condition, and the thatch, if not recent, looked sound.

They filed through the gate, and Penelope surveyed the garden beds that filled the areas on both sides of the narrow gravel path that led to the front door. While uninspiring in their autumnal state, the neatly laid-out beds had hosted rows of vegetables. Most varieties had gone to seed, but there were still turnips and spinach to be had.

Stokes had waved Price to precede them, and he led them to a low front door.

As Penelope and Barnaby joined Stokes before the stoop, Price knocked solidly on the wooden panel, then stepped back and to the side.

It was a quiet country backwater, and while they waited, Penelope heard the distinctive thwack of an axe sinking into wood. Then footsteps approached on the other side of the door, and it opened to reveal a woman of middle age with worn-down features in a thin, angular face framed by faded blonde curls.

The expression in the woman’s washed-out-blue eyes was all anxiety combined with nervousness.

Smiling reassuringly, Penelope stepped forward. “Good morning, Mrs. Gilroy. I believe you know Constable Price.” She waved in the young constable’s direction, hoping the sight of his familiar cheery face would ease the woman’s nerves. “And this”—Penelope indicated Stokes—“is Inspector Stokes, sent down by Scotland Yard to investigate Miss Huntingdon’s murder. My husband and I”—a brief wave included Barnaby—“often assist Inspector Stokes in cases such as this.”

To Penelope’s eyes, Mrs. Gilroy appeared to be the country version of the typical charwoman. She was tall for a woman, but thin with it. She was neatly dressed in well-worn but scrupulously clean clothes, over which a clean bib apron had been tied. Her hands bore testimony to her occupation, being large and strong-looking but with reddened skin and slightly swollen knuckles.

Having taken that in during her introduction, Penelope capped her words with “We would just like to ask you a few questions about Miss Huntingdon—Miss Viola, that is.” Penelope summoned a sympathetic expression. “Finding her body must have been quite a shock.”

Mrs. Gilroy blinked, then responded, “Oh, horrible, it was.” She glanced at the men, then looked back at Penelope, and her nervousness receded a fraction more. “You’d best come inside, then.”

Rather awkwardly, Mrs. Gilroy stepped back, and Penelope walked into the small cottage’s tiny parlor. Following her, Barnaby and Stokes had to duck to avoid the lintel.

“This way, then.” Mrs. Gilroy squeezed past the men and led the way to two armchairs angled before the fireplace. The house’s parlor comprised the front section of a single room that stretched the length of the cottage. A small deal table with three straight-backed wooden chairs filled the central third, while the kitchen with its range, counters, and sink took up the final third of the space.

Judging by the bowls and dish on the counter, Mrs. Gilroy had been assembling a pie.

She ignored her endeavors and hurried to fetch the wooden chairs.

Price immediately went to help, and Stokes took from Mrs. Gilroy the chair she had lifted. “Please,” he said, “use one of the armchairs and leave these to us.”

Penelope sank into one armchair and beckoned Mrs. Gilroy to take its mate.

She did so with some reluctance, even if the knitting bag beside that chair suggested it was her usual place.

After turning two of the wooden chairs to face the armchairs, Barnaby and Stokes sat. As before, Constable Price elected to stand by the front door.

Sensing that a direct, matter-of-fact approach would get the best results, Penelope explained, “We’re trying to get some idea of Miss Viola herself. Can you tell us how you found her to work for?”

With her hands lightly grasping her apron, Mrs. Gilroy took a moment before offering, “Well, she wasn’t an easy mistress, but she was fair. I’ll say that for her. She was very particular over how everything had to be done and fussy over her food, but once you found out what she wanted and gave her that, she was happy. To begin with, years ago when I first started with her, she’d watch over me shoulder all the time, trying to find fault, but these days, she left me to get on with things without any real fuss.”

“I see. Now,” Penelope continued, “we understand that on the Friday morning past, you went to the cottage as usual. Did you notice anything amiss when you entered the house?”

Clearly remembering, Mrs. Gilroy frowned. “Not at first, but thinking back on it, I’m fairly sure the back door wasn’t locked.” She glanced at Stokes. “Miss Viola usually locked the kitchen door at night on account of the rear garden abutting onto the woods and the fields beyond, and really, anyone could walk in if they’d a mind to it. She was careful like that. On Friday last, I had me key, of course, and I put it in the lock as usual and turned it, but the lock was already undone.” She looked at Penelope. “I didn’t think anything of it at first. I thought she must have forgotten to lock up the evening before or perhaps gone out for something earlier that morning.”

Penelope nodded, and Stokes asked, “When you entered the cottage, where did you expect Miss Viola to be?”

“I thought she’d be up in her bedroom as usual.” Mrs. Gilroy’s nervousness had ebbed entirely, and she answered freely. “She’d normally be getting herself up and ready for the day, and she’d come down when I called that I had breakfast on the table.”

Stokes nodded and made a note in his book.

“When you first stepped into the kitchen,” Barnaby asked, “did anything strike you as out of place?”

Mrs. Gilroy frowned. “The flour bin wasn’t properly closed, and a couple of cupboard doors weren’t quite shut, either.” She looked at Penelope. “That wasn’t how I left things, but Thursday —the day before—was one of my half days off, so I thought Miss Viola must have been looking for something…” Mrs. Gilroy pulled a face. “Only she was always so finicky about everything being neat and in its right place, I was a bit surprised she’d left the doors and bin that way.” She shrugged. “But I just shut them and got on with my work.”

“Was there anything else you noticed?” Stokes asked.

“I do remember thinking it was awfully quiet—I didn’t hear any stirrings from upstairs—but I thought Miss Viola must have decided to have a lie-in for once, so I just went on with my usual chores… Oh, that’s right.” She looked at Stokes. “There were no Thursday-evening dishes waiting on the drainer for me to put away. I thought that was odd, but decided she must have done the putting away herself. She sometimes did but not often.”

Stokes nodded. “Right. So you started the porridge.”

Mrs. Gilroy nodded, and her hands clutched her apron more tightly. “And once I had it on, I went to tidy the front parlor…”

Every vestige of color drained from her face as she stared unseeing across the room, then her breath hitched, and she looked down and said, “That’s when I found her.”

Gently, Penelope asked, “What did you do?”

Still looking at the floor, Mrs. Gilroy replied, “Well, I screeched a bit, but there was no one to hear. So I took the pot off the stove, then rushed around to the Penroses and told them what I’d found, and Jim ran to fetch William there.” She tipped her head toward Price. “He hadn’t yet left his ma’s cottage, so he came and saw and sent one of the lads from the farm riding to Salisbury with the news. I couldn’t do anything for poor Miss Viola, so after William arrived, I came away home.”

Stokes glanced up from his notebook. “You didn’t return to the cottage at any point?”

Mrs. Gilroy shook her head. “Truth be told, it’d take something to get me over the threshold again.”

Stokes nodded.

“One last question,” Barnaby said. “Do you have any idea who the gentleman Miss Viola referred to as ‘my secret admirer, H’ in her letters to her sister might be?”

Mrs. Gilroy looked taken aback. “I heard the whispers after church, but I thought they were just silly rumors. I’d no idea Miss Viola had a secret admirer.” She paused, then added, “Not that I would have expected her to tell me. Miss Viola wasn’t one to share anything personal with staff. She only spoke to us about our work. Me and Jim, we were there to do our jobs, and that was the extent of it. We weren’t friends, and she wasn’t one of those ladies who likes to chatter. She never encouraged anything of the sort.”

Barnaby inclined his head. “Thank you. We had gathered that about her.”

Penelope nodded. Jim Swinson had said much the same.

Mrs. Gilroy grimaced. “It might’ve helped her if she’d been more chatty.”

Struck by a sudden thought, Penelope asked, “Did you see her when she got back from Salisbury? On the Wednesday afternoon?”

Mrs. Gilroy shook her head. “No. I left for home before she and Jim got back.”

“When you saw her on Thursday morning,” Penelope continued, “did she seem out of sorts? Upset or…?”

Mrs. Gilroy frowned. “Not upset in the sense of weeping. She wasn’t sad. But she was tense and…well, sort of fragile, I thought. Bothered and het up about something, although she never let on about what. But when she gave me that letter for her sister to post, I did sense that she’d reached some sort of decision. She seemed more sure of herself, more confident and settled on her path. Like she knew what she was going to do.”

When Mrs. Gilroy fell silent and looked at Penelope, who then looked at Stokes, Stokes tucked away his notebook and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Gilroy. You’ve been most helpful. Now, I believe you have a son, Billy. Is he at home?”

The instant escalation of Mrs. Gilroy’s anxiety was painfully obvious. Her expression trepidatious, she popped to her feet as Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes rose. Her hands clasped tightly at her waist, she blurted, “What do you want with Billy?”

In a reassuring tone, Stokes replied, “Just routine questions. We’re speaking with everyone who’s come into contact with Miss Viola over recent weeks.”

To circumvent unnecessary argument, Penelope asked, “Is that Billy chopping wood outside?”

Mrs. Gilroy looked at Penelope, her expression that of a rabbit who’d just recognized a fox.

Penelope smiled brightly. “We’ll just go out and have a quick word.” She moved toward the kitchen. “No need to escort us. Constable Price can show us the way and introduce us to Billy. Your pie is still waiting, and we’ve taken up enough of your morning.”

Hiding a smile at his wife’s managing ways—always so effective—Barnaby followed her through the kitchen and out of the cottage’s rear door. Constable Price leapt into action and took the lead, while Stokes dallied to reassure Mrs. Gilroy that her presence was not required.

Price led them along a grassy path between more vegetable beds.

Billy Gilroy was chopping wood at the far end of the narrow lot. He was a lean, rather slight young man, but from the ease with which he wielded the axe, he had muscles enough. Of average height, he had untidy dark-brown hair, and his pale features were a sharper—less worn—version of his mother’s.

He saw them coming and stepped back from the block, resting the axe head on the ground beside him.

Price nodded to Billy as they halted a yard away. “Billy. The inspector here just wants to ask you a few questions.”

Stokes joined them and introduced himself as well as Barnaby and Penelope, giving Barnaby a chance to study Billy. The lad was nervous and on his guard. His eyes darted to take in Barnaby and Penelope, then he returned his gaze to Stokes and nervously licked his lips. “How can I help ye?”

Stokes hauled out his notebook. “We’re investigating the murder of Miss Viola Huntingdon. We’ve heard that you and she weren’t all that friendly.”

“Friendly?” Billy sneered. “She weren’t friendly with anyone here, well, except perhaps Mrs. Foswell. But other than that, she…” He stopped, then ended with “Well, she wasn’t what you’d call a nice lady.”

“Why do you say that?” Penelope’s words rang with genuine curiosity.

Billy was wary, but eventually, when they all waited for him to answer, he offered, “She always took against me. I never knew why. It was almost as if me just breathing or walking along was enough to set her off. She’d bail me up and rail at me—she’d stop me right in the street and have a go at me.”

“Over what?” Barnaby asked in mildly curious vein.

Billy shrugged, but when they waited again, rather sullenly, he replied, “She’d taken it into her head that I was getting into the wrong company. That’s what she called me mates—the wrong company. What would she know? Anyway, she said that because I don’t have a steady job and live with Ma and rely on her to keep me fed, that I was a burden on Ma’s shoulders. She—Miss Viola—was always railing at me to get a job and become a man and all that sort of tripe.”

“Well,” Penelope said, “it’s not entirely tripe, is it? How old are you?”

Grudgingly, Billy offered, “Nineteen.”

His tone rather harder, Barnaby observed, “Old enough to look for work, then, especially given all the farms around about.”

Billy continued to look sullen but had the sense to bite his tongue.

Stokes had been consulting his notebook. “On Thursday afternoon, did you see anyone heading to Lavender Cottage?”

“Nah,” Billy readily replied. “I was nowhere near there.” Then he ducked his head and shifted on his feet. “I was in the woods over Tollard Royal way, gathering conkers with me mates. We can get a good price for them in Salisbury.”

“When did you get back?” Stokes asked.

“After sunset, it was. Ma was waiting on me for dinner.” Billy nodded toward the cottage. “Must’ve been six when I got through the door.”

Barnaby was watching Billy closely. “Your route from the woods to here—you must have passed not far from Lavender Cottage.”

“Not so close,” Billy promptly countered. “I cut across the fields, didn’t I? I didn’t go by the lanes.”

Stokes looked at Barnaby and Penelope, then, to Billy, said, “That’s all for now, although we might have more questions for you later.”

Billy shrugged and tightened his grip on the axe. “I’ll be here. Nowhere else to go.”

They turned and walked away. As they neared the cottage, they heard the axe bite into wood again.

When they reached the lane, all of them were frowning, even Constable Price.

Stokes halted by the carriage and arched a brow at Barnaby and Penelope.

Penelope humphed. “Well, wherever Billy was on Thursday afternoon, it wasn’t with his mates gathering conkers in the woods. That was an outright lie.”

“I agree.” Barnaby glanced past the cottage to the rear of the lot. “There’s something he’s hiding—something about Thursday afternoon—yet I have difficulty believing he strangled Viola.”

Stokes nodded. “True, but he knows something he doesn’t want us to know. That’s the impression I got.”

“But,” Penelope said, “is it something to do with this case? Or something else entirely?”

“That, indeed, is the question.” Stokes glanced along the lane and frowned. “What’s this?”

A uniformed constable they hadn’t previously met was huffing and puffing as he jogged toward them. The man reached them and pulled up, then attempted a general salute. “Inspector Stokes?”

Stokes nodded curtly. “Out with it, man.”

The constable obliged. “Superintending Constable Mallard sent me to tell you that yesterday afternoon, a bloke tried to sell Miss Huntingdon’s stolen bracelet and necklace to one of the jewelers in Salisbury.”

Eagerly, Stokes asked, “And was this bloke apprehended?”

The constable’s face fell. “No, sir. He ran off as soon as he realized the jeweler knew who the bracelet belonged to. Turned out it was the same jeweler who made the bracelet long ago, and he knew it was Miss Huntingdon’s. The jeweler kept the bracelet and necklace and came in this morning to report that the jewels must have been stolen.”

Stokes looked at Barnaby and Penelope. To Penelope, he said, “It looks like you’ll get your wish sooner rather than later.” He glanced up at Phelps, listening interestedly from the box seat. “It seems we’re off to Salisbury.”