Page 7 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)

CHAPTER 6

F ifteen minutes later, Madeline walked around the village pond and on down High Street. The church was her destination, and several yards behind her trailed the obedient and unintrusive Constable Price.

Madeline found herself a touch amused by the protective concern the constabulary were displaying toward her fair self, but in the circumstances, with her sister’s murderer not yet apprehended, she wasn’t fool enough to dismiss any action the investigators deemed necessary.

The Adairs and Stokes had drawn up in their carriage just as she’d been about to set out for the church. She’d spent the earlier hours of the morning sorting and packing Viola’s clothes to be given away. There were few of her sister’s things she wished to keep, and the realization of how different their lives had become had weighed on her spirit.

That was why she was heading for the church, hoping to find some measure of peace. The investigators had informed her that someone had attempted to sell Viola’s missing bracelet and necklace, and they were on their way to pursue the trail in the hope it would lead them to the murderer. They’d swapped constables, taking up the chatty Morgan and leaving the quieter Price to watch over her. As Mrs. Adair had put it, just in case.

Madeline was happy enough to go along with the notion. At that moment, being left totally alone didn’t appeal, which was why, while Henry had been driving her home the previous evening and he’d asked—carefully, even warily—if she might fancy a drive to Shaftesbury to chase away the cobwebs and perhaps have a quiet lunch in a nice little place he knew, she’d accepted with gratitude. She needed to get away from Viola and death and Ashmore for just a little while.

She’d arranged to meet Henry outside the rectory at half past eleven. It was not quite eleven now, so she had plenty of time to seek solace in the church before rendezvousing with him. She’d informed Constable Price of her plans, which he’d accepted readily, merely saying that once she drove off, he would return to the cottage and await her return. His attitude had confirmed Henry’s standing among the wider community. Thinking back, she rather suspected that those who had earlier whispered about him being the murderer hadn’t been all that serious and had been merely indulging in speculation for titillation’s sake.

On reaching the church’s lychgate, she went through and climbed the gently rising path to the open church door and walked inside.

Constable Price followed as far as the door. He scanned the empty church and waited until she sat in a pew halfway down the nave before ducking back outside and tactfully leaving her to her contemplation.

Madeline let the silence wrap around her. She wasn’t a particularly religious person, but she was the daughter of a minister, and the church had been a constant in her life as it had been in Viola’s. She felt closer to Viola, and indeed, her father, when seated in God’s house.

She’d been there for perhaps ten minutes, relishing the peace and feeling her soul grow more and more refreshed, when the side door that led to the graveyard opened. She didn’t look around at first, but on hearing footsteps approaching, expecting to see Reverend Foswell, she turned with welcome in her eyes—only to discover it was Monty who was walking toward her, a typically charming smile curving his lips.

Really, she thought, faintly irritated, he hadn’t changed one iota. That smile was the same smile that, years ago, had captivated her. Now, however, rather than any flutter inside, she had to battle to keep her cynical amusement from showing. The assumption that any female would welcome his presence at any time clearly remained embedded in his brain, along with an expectation that Madeline would again fall for him as her much-younger and far-less-experienced self once had.

Apparently, he was blind to the fact that she’d changed.

True to his customary ways, he gracefully stepped into and sat in the pew in front of her. Placing one arm along the pew’s raised back, he swiveled to smile even more winningly at her. “My dearest Madeline, while I understand that your sister’s death affects you deeply, and I do sincerely honor you for that, it doesn’t do to sink too deeply into grief. That being so, here I am, eager and willing to divert your thoughts.” He affected an expression of genuine interest. “I own to being highly curious about what you’ve been up to since last we met.”

Since you threw me over because I was too independently minded for you?

The words were on the tip of Madeline’s tongue, but—minister’s daughter sitting in a church—she swallowed them unuttered.

She also told herself she couldn’t laugh in his face. Instead, after due consideration, she revealed, “After Papa died, I moved to London. I have a house there and amuse myself well enough.” Building an investment fund, but she wasn’t fool enough to tell him—a self-confessed fortune hunter—that.

“London, heh?” Monty looked mildly impressed. “Do you own the house? That’s quite an investment. Whereabouts is it in town?”

“Near the university.” She strove to keep her tone even. “I have lodgers.”

“Ah.” He nodded as if understanding had dawned. “A lodging house.”

She didn’t correct him. At a stretch, her Bedford Place house could possibly be described as such. “But enough of me. I confess I’m interested in learning of your exploits over the same period. America?” Better she kept him focused on himself, and that had never proved difficult. He had always been his favorite topic.

Sure enough, he brightened and said, “Yes, indeed.” Sadly, he followed that with “But I’m quite puzzled that you’ve never married.”

Several responses leapt to her tongue—such as that her earlier association with him had taught her the unwisdom of entrusting her future to a man—but after considering the best way to bring this discussion to an end, she shrugged and said, “Frankly, I never saw the need. With the inheritance Papa left me, I have enough to get by. But”—she studied him and made an educated guess—“you haven’t fronted the altar, either, have you?”

And given his long-ago-stated intention, that was surprising.

He sighed feelingly. “No. I never found the right lady for me.” The smile he bestowed on her was a too-sweet blend of self-deprecation and fellow feeling. He trapped her gaze and declared, “I should never have let you go.”

She managed not to snort or point out that she hadn’t been the one to break things off. “Tell me what you got up to in America. In the northeast, I think you said.”

“Generally speaking.” He waved expansively. “That said, I spent most of my time in New York. That’s where all the major business takes place. And”—he shifted to face her directly—“if I do say so myself, I feel I left my mark.”

Cynically, she wondered in what way. “What sort of business were you engaged in?” As far as she knew, he had no particular skills.

“It was a bit of this and that. I was really more a finance man, helping to fund various enterprises. It was very lucrative.”

“Indeed? As that’s the case, I own myself surprised that you’ve returned to England.”

He raised his gaze to take in the church’s beamed ceiling. “Believe it or not, I developed a hankering for the auld country. For this land of green pastures and golden fields—the land of my forebears. Until I was over there, I didn’t feel the tug, but once I’d accumulated enough wealth not to have to think of money again, I realized I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life over there. So I came back.” He lowered his gaze and smiled at her. “Just in time, it seems, to meet you again.”

Madeline had no intention of encouraging him to pursue any ongoing acquaintance with her. She felt a distinct need to cut this interview short. She glanced at her lapel watch and, with a certain relief, discovered she could honestly state, “I have an appointment in a few minutes. You’ll have to excuse me.” Thank goodness she’d accepted Henry’s invitation.

She looked at Monty in time to see annoyance flash across his face and remembered that, in the past, he had always been the one to define the length of their meetings. Thinking back, she couldn’t recall ever walking out on him before.

Endeavoring to hide the smile that realization brought to her lips, she rose, and when he rose, too, she inclined her head. “Good day, Monty.” She stepped into the aisle and started walking back to the door.

Naturally, he fell in beside her. After a moment, he ventured, “I sincerely hope, Madeline, that once this sad time has passed, we can…well, not exactly resume where we left off but at least renew our friendship.”

A touch repressively, she replied, “I’m really not sure what I will do regarding Lavender Cottage, so I can’t say how much longer I’ll remain in the area.”

She reached the doorway and stepped out into the weak sunshine and spotted Constable Price waiting in the shade of a large tree. His surprise at seeing Monty showed in his sudden tensing, and Madeline realized that as the constable had been watching the main door, he hadn’t seen Monty enter the church.

She smiled and fractionally inclined her head, letting Price know Monty was no threat. She turned to Monty and realized he’d been looking down and hadn’t seen Price under the tree. She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Monty.”

He caught her fingers and bowed over her hand. Straightening, he smiled with a full measure of charm. “For now, dearest Madeline, farewell.”

She retrieved her hand and, feeling a smidgen relieved that Price was within hailing distance, stepped past Monty and set off, walking steadily down the drive.

She’d just passed beneath the lychgate when Henry drew his curricle to a halt in the lane. She felt her face come alight and her heart lift. Suddenly, the day seemed much sunnier.

Henry saw her and smiled. “There you are. Right on time.”

He leaned across and offered her his hand, and she took it and climbed into the open carriage. She sat beside him and found she was looking forward to the day.

“Now.” Henry raised his reins and gave his chestnuts the office. “Let’s get some air to blow away the dismals and simply enjoy our day.”

Madeline laughed and clutched her bonnet as they started off. Leaning back as the curricle rattled along High Street, she discovered a smile had taken up permanent residence on her face. Sitting beside Henry, she could, indeed, relax and, as he had put it, simply enjoy the day.

From within the deep shade of an old oak by the church wall, William Price watched the gentleman who had—to William’s considerable surprise—walked out of the church with Miss Madeline. While Miss Madeline’s behavior had made it clear that she didn’t view the man as a villain, William wasn’t so sure.

The gentleman—at least, he appeared to be a gentleman—was lean of build and dark-haired. Just like their mystery man, but unfortunately also like several other men, including Lord Glossup, who had just driven off with Miss Madeline. But more to the point, William couldn’t place the man, and he knew most of those who lived in and around the village.

If he wasn’t a villager, what was he doing there?

Clearly, he knew Miss Madeline, which was curious to say the least. But what made William remain still and silent, his gaze trained on the man, whoever he might be, was the change in the man’s expression as he’d watched Miss Madeline walk down the path. At first, he’d seemed merely put out, a bit sulky that she’d walked away, but then Miss Madeline had met his lordship and driven away with him, and the man’s eyes had narrowed to slits, and his jaw had clenched.

Now, with the rattle of the curricle’s wheels fading into the distance, William saw the man mutter something, then he spun on his heel and strode away, heading toward the path behind the church that led to Manor Farm.

William watched the man go until he vanished behind the trees at the rear of the churchyard. Finally stretching, then setting off toward the cottage, William thought again of all he’d observed and made a mental note to mention the strange gentleman to the inspector.

Stokes strode into the Salisbury police station with Barnaby and Penelope on his heels. During the journey from the village, they’d speculated about what the news of the necklace and bracelet might mean but had too few facts to make any predictions.

Mallard was waiting by the desk and straightened when he saw them. He reached across and picked up a gold bracelet and necklace and held them as an offering in his large hands.

Penelope noted his altered attitude. The Superintending Constable appeared as eager as they to push ahead with this case and seemed keen to acquit himself well as he declared, “These are the items the jeweler identified as belonging to the victim.”

Stokes nodded to Mallard and accepted the jewelry. Stokes shook out the bracelet, studied it for an instant, then passed it to Penelope.

She lifted the gold links and held the piece up to the light.

Then she frowned and brought the bracelet closer to her spectacles and peered at the stones.

Before she could exclaim, Mallard said, “A local jeweler name of Swithin—an older man, decent solid sort, never any trouble —brought these in this morning. He said a young man came into his shop latish yesterday and tried to sell him the pieces. Swithin recognized both as belonging to Miss Huntingdon and pretended an interest while surreptitiously trying to send his assistant to fetch us, but the young man noticed the silly beggar leave, got the wind up, and legged it. Swithin had no hope of catching him. But the thing is, Swithin said Miss Huntingdon—the victim—came to see him last Wednesday. Seemed the catch on the bracelet had come loose, and as Swithin himself had made the piece as a gift for the victim’s mother long ago, Miss Huntingdon brought the bracelet to him and asked to have it fixed. She was wearing the necklace at the time and happily showed it off to Swithin. According to him, she was very proud of that necklace, up until he told her the bad news.”

Penelope, along with Barnaby and Stokes, had grown riveted by the tale.

“Bad news?” Stokes asked before she or Barnaby could.

Portentously, Mallard nodded. “Turns out the jewels in both bracelet and necklace are paste. But Swithin swears that the last time he saw the bracelet, the stones were very much the real thing. That was a couple of years back when Miss Huntingdon brought the piece in for cleaning. I didn’t know you cleaned jewelry, but apparently, you do.”

“Most definitely,” Penelope declared. “And aquamarines are tricky to clean.”

“Where is Swithin?” Stokes asked, his gaze going to the area deeper inside the station.

“I had to let him get back to his shop,” Mallard said. “He insisted he couldn’t leave his assistant alone the whole day. But he said he’d be there for you to speak with. Mind you, he didn’t seem to know anything about Miss Huntingdon being murdered, and I didn’t tell him.”

Stokes nodded in approval. “Where is Swithin’s shop?”

“Go to the opposite corner of the marketplace,” Mallard said, “then on a few steps along Silver Street. Swithin’s Jewelers. You can’t miss it.”

Stokes thanked him, and with nods all around, they left the building.

Morgan had waited outside with Phelps and the carriage. Penelope walked straight to the carriage door, which Connor held for her. She climbed up, and after giving Phelps directions, Barnaby and Stokes joined her.

She and they waited with suppressed impatience while Phelps guided the carriage back around the marketplace. They passed the market cross and turned onto Silver Street. Penelope peered out of the window, squinting ahead. “There it is—Swithin’s Jewelers.”

The carriage drew smoothly into the curb, and Stokes opened the door and got down. Barnaby and Penelope followed. They paused on the pavement to take stock of the establishment.

Swithin’s Jewelers showed the world a well-kept storefront, with two large bow windows on either side of a white-painted door. The glass in the windows was spotless and the surrounds swept scrupulously clean. Blue-velvet-covered trays displayed earrings, rings, bracelets, necklaces, and all manner of jewelry, artfully arranged to make the best of the light that struck through the leaded glass panes.

The door was half glazed, and a bell above it tinkled when Stokes turned the brass knob and led them inside.

The shop had counters running along the side and rear walls, beneath some of which were glass-fronted cases, and more such cases displaying everything from clocks to jeweled combs filled the walls behind the counters. Completing the rather spacious layout, in the center of the shop sat a delicate gate-legged table with three matching chairs, one behind and two in front. The table’s highly polished surface supported two small brass- mounted mirrors on stands, the arrangement inviting customers to sit and examine and try on selected pieces.

Prosperous gentility all but hung in the air.

As with Barnaby beside her, Penelope followed Stokes deeper into the shop, she tipped her head toward Barnaby and murmured, “This wouldn’t be out of place in Hatton Garden.”

“Hmm.” Then he murmured back, “Perhaps not Hatton Garden—not enough diamonds—but maybe the lower reaches of Ludgate Hill.”

Penelope glanced around, then whispered, “At least there are no customers here at the moment.”

She followed Stokes to where, behind the rear counter, an older man stood with the practiced smile of an experienced shopkeeper on his face. He wore a tweed suit that somehow complemented his bountiful whiskers, and the creases in his face marked him as a cheerful sort. But his gaze was as acutely assessing as any shopkeeper’s, and as he took in Stokes’s rather grim visage, the man’s welcoming smile faded into a more tentative look, but then he saw Penelope and Barnaby, and that look grew distinctly confused.

Stokes halted before the counter and, understanding the man’s uncertainty, explained, “I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard, and these are Mr. and Mrs. Adair, who are acting as consultants on this case. Mr. Swithin, I presume? I believe Superintending Constable Mallard warned you to expect us.”

“Oh yes. Well, he told me an inspector would call.” Swithin looked vaguely alarmed. “I must say, I hadn’t expected Scotland Yard to investigate such a relatively minor incident. I’m not even sure Miss Huntingdon yet knows that her jewelry has been stolen.”

Stokes gravely said, “I’m sorry to have to inform you, Swithin, that Miss Viola Huntingdon was murdered in her home last Thursday afternoon.”

Swithin paled and clutched the counter. “Oh, good God! Dear me!” He drew in a steadying breath, then went on, “The poor lady! Murdered, you say?”

When Stokes nodded, Swithin continued, “What a dreadful thing.” He frowned, then focused on Stokes and earnestly said, “I do hope it wasn’t anything to do with the jewels being, well, effectively stolen?” His frown deepened. “Possibly twice. The stones first and then the pieces themselves.”

“As to that, we can’t yet say,” Stokes replied, “but we’re grateful to you for bringing the bracelet and necklace to us and reporting the attempt to sell them to you. We understand that Miss Huntingdon brought the bracelet and necklace to you last Wednesday.”

Swithin nodded. “She brought the bracelet, and she was wearing the necklace, which had been made to match. Not by me, I should add. The catch on the bracelet had come loose, and as I had crafted the piece and she and her family were longtime customers of mine, she brought it to me to fix. Which I did. However, I couldn’t help but see that the stones, which had been quite a fine set of aquamarines, had been replaced with paste. I debated whether to mention it, but I knew she was reasonably well-off, so I very gently inquired, and she was quite taken aback. She immediately had me examine the necklace, and I had to tell her that those stones, too, were paste. Quite good imitations, mind—they would have fooled most people—but they were fake, nonetheless.”

“How did she take the news?” Penelope asked.

Swithin looked uncomfortable. “I fear I had given her a terrible shock. It was plain that she hadn’t known of the substitution, which didn’t surprise me.”

Barnaby asked, “Did she mention who she suspected of replacing the stones?”

Swithin shook his head. “But I could tell from her expression and the way she pokered up that she knew who it must have been, and the realization quite floored her. Indeed, I venture to say she was devastated, but of course, a lady like her, she drew it all in, put on her best face, glossed over the moment, and soldiered on. Her sort always do.”

Stokes had been jotting notes in his ever-present book. He looked up and said, “Let’s move on to the man who brought the jewelry to you yesterday. Describe him if you would.”

Swithin pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes as if studying an image in his mind. “A trifle above average height. Youngish—perhaps twenty or so, twenty-five at the outside. I must confess that I’m not adept at guessing young people’s ages these days. He had dark hair—dark brown and straightish—and a rather shifty expression. Blue eyes, I think—oh, and he had rough hands. Workman’s hands with callused and leathery palms.”

Stokes exchanged a glance with Barnaby and Penelope, then in a murmured aside, said, “That description fits two of our suspects—BG and JS.”

Barnaby grimaced. “Regardless of whether they murdered our victim or not, either of them might have gone to the house and gained entry after she was dead.”

“They had an entire evening and night in which to do so.” Penelope arched her brows. “Perhaps it was they who searched the house and found the jewelry and took it away.”

“But they left the other, more valuable pieces, remember?” Stokes said. “That doesn’t fit with a straightforward robbery, before or after the murder.”

Stokes refocused on Swithin and raised his voice. “We believe we know who you might mean—one of two possible suspects. Would you be willing to come with us to Ashmore, the village where Miss Huntingdon lived, and identify the man for us?”

Barnaby added, “We’ll take you down in our carriage and return you here the same way afterward.”

Penelope added her voice and a smile. “It shouldn’t take too long. An hour or so there and the same time back.”

“The identification itself won’t take much time at all,” Stokes said. “You just have to look and point to the man who came here.”

Swithin looked torn. After an indecisive moment, he said, “Miss Viola and her family—well, I did know them for a very long time. I suppose I could ask my assistant to watch the shop.” He stared at Stokes. “Will I have to confront the villain?”

Stokes smiled reassuringly. “No, not at all. You can remain in the carriage and just point him out to us. All we need is your confirmation of which of the two suspects it was.”

“And my confirmation will help catch Miss Huntingdon’s murderer?” Swithin asked.

“We believe so,” Penelope replied. “At the very least, it will advance us significantly toward that goal.”

“Well, then.” Swithin raised his chin and squared his shoulders. “I can hardly refuse, can I?” Then he shook his head. “Poor dear lady. If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll inform my assistant and fetch my coat.”

Five minutes later, with Swithin’s assistant installed behind the shop’s counter, they all climbed into the coach and set off for Ashmore village at as quick a trot as Phelps would risk.

Barnaby glanced out of the carriage as they rattled into Ashmore from the north. Phelps had made good time, and it was barely four o’clock as they approached the triangular junction at the heart of the village. The pond lay just ahead.

They’d discussed how to approach their two suspects, and Stokes planned to take Swithin to see Jim Swinson first, reasoning that Jim would be the easier to locate, given he would most likely be assisting Arthur Penrose in his orchard.

Phelps slowed the carriage to make the turn onto Green Lane and thus to Penrose and Lavender Cottages.

Seated beside Barnaby, Penelope was looking out at the green and the pond. Suddenly, she sat straighter, her gaze locked on the vista. “There’s a group of young men by the pond, and I think one of our suspects is there.”

Barnaby rose and rapped on the ceiling. “Phelps, pull up.”

Immediately, the carriage slowed, then rocked to a halt.

Swithin was sitting opposite Penelope. She caught the jeweler’s gaze. “Mr. Swithin, if you could take a look outside, can you see the young men by the pond?”

Swithin peered out, then nodded. “I see them, yes.”

Barnaby looked over Penelope’s head and glimpsed a group of lounging lads. Presumably, Billy Gilroy was among them, but from that angle, Barnaby couldn’t make him out.

Somewhat portentously, her gaze locked on Swithin, Penelope asked, “Is the young man who brought the bracelet and necklace to your shop among that group?”

Methodically, Swithin studied the lads, then he stiffened, raised a hand, and pointed. “That’s him! The one on the far right.”

Stokes had risen and was staring out over Swithin’s hat. “You’re certain?”

“As certain as I am that I’m sitting here,” Swithin staunchly replied. He pointed again, more emphatically. “That’s definitely the young man who brought me Miss Huntingdon’s bracelet and necklace.”

Stokes dropped a hand on the jeweler’s shoulder. “Thank you. That’s all we need you to do. Please remain here, out of sight, while we speak with the lad.”

Stokes turned, opened the door, and descended to the lane on the side of the carriage screened from the green. Barnaby followed, and as Penelope put a hand on his shoulder and negotiated the steep steps, Morgan dropped down from his perch above.

“You heard?” Stokes asked Morgan.

The constable nodded. “I’ll circle around.” He stepped past Barnaby and Penelope and, sinking his hands into his pockets and adopting an innocent-looking slouch, strode off along the lane toward the junction.

Stokes watched him go, then arched a brow at Barnaby and Penelope. “Right, then. Let’s go and have a word with Billy Gilroy.”

Stokes led the way around the carriage and onto the green, making directly for the group beside the pond. Barnaby and Penelope followed a yard behind, waiting to see what would happen.

Billy Gilroy saw them coming. For an instant, he dithered, then he turned and fled, making for High Street, only to have Morgan intercept him with a flying tackle and knock him to the ground.

The pair rolled once, then Morgan popped to his feet and hauled Billy up by his collar.

Stokes slowed his approach and murmured to Barnaby and Penelope, “I’ve always suspected that Morgan misses the more physical side of policing.”

Barnaby grinned, as did Penelope.

By the time the three of them reached the pair, Morgan had Billy firmly by the collars of both shirt and jacket, and the lad appeared rather limp and subdued.

Indeed, the face he showed them was filled with fear. Before Stokes could get out a word, Billy blurted, “I didn’t kill her!”

Stokes halted a yard away and considered their captive. “Didn’t you?”

Although Stokes’s intonation was distinctly skeptical, studying Billy, Barnaby was inclined to believe the lad.

From beside Barnaby, Penelope said, “But you can see how it looks, can’t you? Miss Viola is strangled, the house ransacked, and two pieces of jewelry go missing, and then you show up in Salisbury and try to sell those particular two pieces to a jeweler.”

Billy was shaking his head vehemently. “I didn’t strangle her! I never even went to the house—never been inside it in all my life.” His panic was evident, and the desperation in his tone lent credence to his statements.

Calmly, Barnaby asked, “Then how did you come by the necklace and bracelet?”

Billy’s gaze locked on Barnaby’s face. “I took them from where she put them. She left them where anyone could’ve found and taken them.” He shot a glance at Stokes. “No law to say I can’t take things others have left lying about, is there?”

Penelope frowned. “She, meaning Miss Viola?”

Plainly encouraged that they were listening, Billy nodded fervently. “She obviously didn’t want them anymore, and then she was dead, and I had them, and there didn’t seem any reason I shouldn’t see what I could get for them.”

Stokes was frowning, too. “Tell us exactly how you came to have Miss Huntingdon’s jewelry.”

Almost eagerly, Billy explained, “Early that afternoon—the day she was killed—I was heading home from Manor Farm. I’d been helping with the baling there, and we stopped a little after noon. I was walking home to get a bite, and the path runs along the back wall of the graveyard, on the other side of the trees, and I was on that stretch when I saw her—Miss Viola—come out of the church. She wandered into the graveyard sort of uncertain, looking this way and that. She didn’t see me because of the trees, and I thought she was acting strange, so I stopped and watched her. She went one way, then the other, then finally, she went to a very old grave with an urn on top of the gravestone. She crouched down and pulled something from her bag and stuffed it into the urn. Then she looked around sharpish like, as if checking no one had seen, then she stood up and walked quickly away, back around the church and down to the lane. Seemed she was off to her cottage.”

During Billy’s account, Stokes had pulled out his book and started taking notes. “So you’re saying Miss Viola put her favorite jewelry into an urn in the graveyard.” Skepticism weighted the words.

But Billy nodded earnestly. “She did. I can show you where, then you’ll believe me.” Billy made to head toward the church, having forgotten that Morgan still had hold of his collars.

Morgan pulled Billy up and held him.

“You have to let me show you,” Billy all but wailed.

His expression impassive, Stokes glanced at Barnaby and Penelope, then nodded to Morgan. “Let him go.” To Billy, Stokes said, “Try to run, and we’ll have you in manacles. Be sensible and just lead the way and show us what you think will convince us you didn’t kill Miss Viola.”

Billy nodded eagerly and turned and walked quickly toward the church, with Morgan keeping pace at Billy’s heels.

Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes followed the pair off the green and onto High Street, then Billy turned under the lychgate and climbed the path to the church door. He went past the door and around the far end of the church, beyond which lay the graveyard.

Billy started along the central path. His steps quickening, he glanced back at them. “It’s just along here.”

The grave he led them to lay more or less at the center of the graveyard and wasn’t just old but ancient. On the cracked gravestone, in the shadow cast by the weathered and worn headstone, sat an equally ancient urn. Billy leaned over and peered inside it, then straightened, stepped back, and pointed into the urn. “I left the handkerchief she’d wrapped about the jewelry. It’s still in there.”

Penelope stepped forward and looked into the urn, then reached inside and pulled out a fine lawn square. She held it up and examined it, then turned to Barnaby and Stokes and pointed to an embroidered monogram in one corner. “VH,” Penelope confirmed. “I think we can accept that this is, indeed, one of Viola’s handkerchiefs.”

Footsteps approaching on the gravel path had them turning to see a gentleman walking toward them. Judging by his clerical collar, the man had to be Reverend Foswell.

As he neared, he smiled genially. “Good day to you all. I’m Reverend Foswell, minister of this church.”

Stokes responded with the usual introductions, and Foswell nodded benignly.

He half bowed to Barnaby and Penelope. “Mr. and Mrs. Adair.” Foswell’s glance included Stokes when he asked, “Have you made any progress, Inspector?”

With the handkerchief still dangling from her fingertips, Penelope responded, “Progress, yes. Billy here has just told us that Viola Huntingdon visited the church a little after noon on the day she was murdered.”

Foswell nodded. “Indeed, she did. I saw her praying in the church but didn’t intrude. I was in the vestry when she left.” He waved toward the church. “The window looks out this way, and I saw her wander around, then come to this grave. She crouched, which put her out of my sight, and I thought she must have been studying the inscription, which as you can see is quite worn away to the extent that we can’t tell who is buried there. But after a moment, Viola rose and left, and I confess I didn’t think any more about it.” He looked from Stokes to Barnaby and Penelope. “I really didn’t think the matter relevant to her death. If I had, I would have come to you earlier and reported it.” He looked inquiringly at Stokes. “Is her visit here important?”

Penelope nodded at Billy. “Your sighting of Miss Huntingdon and the confirmation that she was here is certainly of importance to Billy and to our understanding of the case.”

Barnaby looked at Billy. “So where were you on Thursday afternoon?”

Billy colored and looked sheepish, but this time, replied truthfully, “In the woods, like I said, but I was hiding the jewelry in a hollow tree only I know about, not with me mates gathering conkers.”

Stokes sighed and turned to Foswell. “We intended to call on you earlier in case you had any insights into Miss Huntingdon’s state of mind. Perhaps we could go into the church and speak of that now. Meanwhile”—Stokes returned his gaze to Billy—“you’ve had a lucky escape. You’re correct in thinking that, as the jewelry was left in a public place, you committed no crime in taking it. However, I think you’ll discover that, in this case, the village community will be rather less forgiving than the law. I advise you to go home and, henceforth, keep your nose clean and do what you can to help your mother and make her proud of you. You’ll get much farther in life that way, rather than trying to find shortcuts that involve no hard work. Everything in life worth having is something that has to be worked for. That’s just the way life is. Remember that, and you’ll get along much better.”

“Hear, hear,” Reverend Foswell said. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Stokes tipped his head, indicating the path around the church, and said to Billy, “Off you go. And remember what I said.”

Wide-eyed and relieved, Billy ducked his head to them all, then took off, striding rapidly back around the church.

Stokes returned his attention to Foswell. “Now, Reverend Foswell, if you have a few minutes to spare…”

“Yes, indeed.” Foswell turned toward the church. “Come inside, and we can talk.”

As he and Stokes led the way along the path, Foswell somewhat diffidently said, “Might I ask, Inspector, what Billy has been up to? Whatever it is, it’s bound to come out, and people will gossip, I’m afraid, and he’s not always viewed in the best of lights as it is. If I know what the facts are, I might be able to guide reactions into a more appropriate vein.”

Stokes dipped his head in agreement and proceeded to outline what they now believed had occurred with Viola’s jewelry.

They entered the empty church and settled in the two rearmost pews.

Foswell was frowning. “In some ways, that does sound like Viola—like something she might do if she wanted to hide something. But why is a mystery.” He looked at Barnaby and Penelope, seated in the pew in front and swiveled to face Foswell and Stokes. “Why,” Foswell asked, patently puzzled, “would she hide her jewelry?”

“More specifically,” Penelope said, “why did she hide those particular pieces just hours before she was killed?”

None of them had any insights to offer. They spoke with Foswell for several minutes, going over all he knew of Viola and her time in the village, but there was nothing in what he had to impart that shed light on the issues before them.

Eventually, Foswell concluded, “While I’m aware of the strained relations between the Penroses and Viola and of the general view of Viola, which wasn’t entirely flattering and, I’m saddened to say, in some respects, was well-deserved, I know of no reason that might have prompted anyone in the village to murder her.”

Stokes thanked the minister for his time and his assistance with Billy, then Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes left the church and, joined by Morgan, who had remained outside, returned to where Phelps waited with the carriage just beyond the lychgate.

Barnaby handed Penelope up and followed, and the three of them joined Swithin, who had remained in the carriage throughout.

Naturally, he had questions, and as reward for his assistance, Stokes filled him in on all that had transpired, explaining at the last that, as Viola had left her jewelry for anyone to find, no actionable crime had been committed by Billy in taking the items and attempting to sell them.

“Oh.” Swithin looked puzzled. “How sad. And odd.” He looked at Barnaby and Penelope. “She was very fond of both those pieces, you know. And even after I told her the stones were fake, while I can understand her throwing away the necklace, I’m rather surprised she would have discarded her mother’s bracelet.”

Barnaby glanced at Penelope and saw that the point was a puzzle to her, too.

After exchanging a look with Stokes, Barnaby turned the conversation to more general countryside observations until they reached the King John Inn.

There, after sincerely thanking Swithin for his help one last time, Barnaby, Penelope, Stokes, and Morgan alighted from the carriage, allowing Phelps and Connor to return Swithin to his home in Salisbury.

The four of them stood and watched the carriage disappear down the lane, then, each wrapped in thought, they turned and went into the inn.