“Humph. My guess is she dresses to match the occasion. Had someone like my mother hired her services, she probably would have appeared in a homemade cotton housedress and spoken with a Cotswold lilt. It’s all part of winning her customer’s trust.”
“You’re likely right about that. A skilled swindler would know how to play her role to perfection.” Lady Phoebe’s chin went down. She turned toward the dressing table and lifted the silver-backed hairbrush, turning it over, this way and that, while staring down at its etched design. Eva knew she had something specific she wished to say and was searching for the right words. Finally, she looked back up with a fluttering, tenuous smile. “In an odd way, though, I almost feel she did Julia a service. Perhaps a valuable one. Oh, I don’t like seeing my sister deceived, but she did put Julia’s fears to rest, at least temporarily. She told Julia what she needed to hear, and in a way Julia would not have listened to coming from the rest of us.”
A retort—not aimed at Lady Phoebe but at the situation—rose to Eva’s lips, but she held it back. Could lies, an out-and-out hoax, ever be beneficial? It was true that Lady Julia hadn’t listened to anyone who tried to comfort her over the death of her husband and the circumstances that led to her marrying him. Perhaps she’d needed an outsider, someone she could believe held an objective view, even if deep down she hadn’t truly believed she had been communicating with her deceased husband. As for the baby . . .
Believing it to be a boy could lead to a vast disappointment in a few months, but perhaps by then it wouldn’t matter so much. Lady Julia had made it clear she wished for a boy to carry on her husband’s title of Viscount Annondale, and also to secure her own financial stability. The latter would lift a burden from her brother’s eventual inheritance, especially since changing times had left the family finances sorely depleted compared to prewar standards. With a baby girl, Julia would inherit a stipend from her husband’s estate, and Eva assumed a similar arrangement would be passed on to a daughter. But control of the title and fortune would pass to Gilbert Townsend’s cousin and closest male heir, Ernest Shelton, who would have no reason, really, to share his good fortune with either Lady Julia or her child.
Still, Eva firmly believed that once Lady Julia beheld her infant, boy or girl, all other matters would melt away and she would fall deeply and irrevocably in love. Financial issues would settle themselves.
“I’m sorry, Eva.” Lady Phoebe hopped up from the bench and retrieved her overcoat from the dressing room. “I said we’d go out to your parents’ farm this afternoon. Any word from the constable?”
“It’s all right, we needn’t go today. You’re tired.”
“Nonsense. I’m fine. It was just such a shock, discovering the purpose for our ride to Cheltenham. Leave it to Julia to turn Grams’s suggestion into something nefarious. But I don’t suppose she could have just come out and announced she wished to consult a fortune-teller. Oh, excuse me. Miss Greenwood made it clear she was no such thing. But she could have fooled me. Now, go and get your things, and I’ll send for the Vauxhall to be brought back around.” She hurried over to the window. “Ah, no need, it hasn’t been put away yet. I’ll go down now and meet you outside.”
“My lady, really—”
“You want to help Mr. Ripley, don’t you?”
Eva wasn’t so sure. If Alice had been Keenan’s morning visitor yesterday, she could provide him with an alibi. But at what cost? Her marriage, her reputation, not to mention causing their parents a good deal of distress.
Eva was up in her room gathering her things when the telephone call came. Connie, the head housemaid, came running up from belowstairs and breathlessly told her Miles had left a brief message. Keenan had been arrested.
* * *
She barely noticed the trip to the farm—neither the speed of the Vauxhall nor the ragged condition of the road. When they reached the house, Lady Phoebe didn’t climb out of the car. “I’ll find an errand or two to do in the village. I could check on the RCVF donations and see if anything else needs sorting. What do you think, will an hour do?”
“That should do fine, my lady. Wish me luck.” Although what sort of luck Eva would need, she couldn’t have said. And if there had been any form of luck in this business, Stephen Ripley would still be alive, Keenan a free man, and Alice at home with her family.
She found Alice and their mum in the kitchen preparing dinner. Dad, apparently, was still out in the pastures with the cattle, gathering them into the closest pasture for the night. Peeled potatoes sat in a pot of cold water while Alice sliced the skin from a few more, and Mum was cleaning a chicken. They both stopped what they were doing upon Eva’s unexpected entrance, washed their hands, cleared space at the table, and set a kettle on to boil.
“What a lovely surprise,” Mum exclaimed as she bustled into the larder for a tin of biscuits. “We didn’t expect to see you again until Sunday. Oh, but it’s such a treat to have my two girls home together.”
“I hope nothing is wrong.” Alice brought out the creamer and then went into the pantry for the sugar. “As if our little village didn’t have enough upset, what with Stephen Ripley’s death. Have they figured out what happened yet? It’s not like a gardener to fall off his ladder like that.”
So the chief inspector had spread the same story among the villagers as the Foxwood Hall servants. Though Eva was no admirer of the man, she couldn’t blame him for his white lie to prevent gossip and panic from spreading, at least initially. Then again, he might merely have wished to put his suspect at ease in the hopes he would grow careless. Did Chief Inspector Perkins possess such cleverness? Up until now, Eva would have said no. Now that an arrest had been made, however, there would be no hiding the facts.
“Stephen didn’t fall,” she told them.
“What do you mean?” Holding the biscuit tin, Mum went to the table and lowered herself into a chair. She held the tin absently in her lap.
“He was pushed. But not only that. He was stabbed as well. With his own hedge clippers.”
“Good heavens.” Alice, too, pulled out a chair and sat. “Who on earth would do such a thing?”
“Brace yourselves.” Eva sat beside her mother, took the tin out of her hands, and placed it on the table. “Keenan has been arrested.”
The color draining from her face, Alice jumped to her feet. “Keenan couldn’t have done it. He simply could not have.”
* * *
Phoebe left the Vauxhall in front of St. George’s with every intention of going down to the church basement and taking an inventory of the donations that had been brought in since the last time she’d been there. Instead she found herself drawn to the foot traffic that moved in one distinct direction, like a flotilla caught in a swift channel. If she didn’t know better, she’d have estimated half the men of the village to be making their way toward the other end of High Road—to the location of the police station.
There were women present, too, but rather than follow their husbands they stood apart, watching, whispering among themselves, and looking fretful. No one seemed to notice Phoebe’s arrival, in itself saying much, for it was a rare day when she or members of her family went unrecognized in the village. People usually went out of their way to bid them good day and express their well wishes with an odd combination of friendliness and formality.
By now they must all know Keenan Ripley had been arrested, then. But why this mass migration to Little Barlow’s tiny police station? What could they hope to accomplish? Burning to know, Phoebe decided to approach the nearest farmwife for answers, but just then the rectory door opened and the vicar’s wife, Violet Hershel, walked briskly down her garden path. She noticed Phoebe immediately and checked her momentum.
“Lady Phoebe, I see you’ve noticed . . .” She raised a hand to indicate the flow of male pedestrians.
“I have indeed. What is going on, Mrs. Hershel?”
The woman, some twenty years older than Phoebe, was thin, coifed, and wore a tailored day frock of go
od, if not the best quality, paisley cotton. She rubbed her palms together before folding her hands at her waist. “Keenan Ripley has been arrested for the murder. Isn’t it awful, Lady Phoebe? He always seemed like such a nice young man.”
“I heard about it this morning.” As soon as Phoebe spoke, she wished she hadn’t, for she was fairly certain Constable Brannock had telephoned Eva on the sly earlier. But Mrs. Hershel was too engrossed in the goings on down the road to bother asking Phoebe where she had heard the news.
“I do hope it’s all a mistake,” the woman said. “And after Mr. Ripley’s very kind donation to your RCVF charity drive—why, how could anyone believe such a man could commit murder? And his own brother, no less.”
“I agree, Mrs. Hershel. But do you know why all those men are headed to the police station? That is where they’re going, isn’t it? Or has something else happened?” That thought made her hold her breath in apprehension.
“I wish I could answer that, Lady Phoebe. You see, I was just arranging some flowers in my parlor, and happened to glance out the window. That’s when I saw all these people converge on the village. I agree with you; they can only have one destination in mind—Chief Inspector Perkins’s office.” She glanced at the church behind her. “I do wish Mr. Hershel was back from Gloucester, so I could send him to find out exactly what is going on.”
“Why wait?” Phoebe took several steps in the general direction of the police station.
“Lady Phoebe, you mustn’t. It wouldn’t be proper. Especially for a young lady like yourself. What would your grandmother say?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Hershel, I can handle my grandmother.” Phoebe spoke with undue bravado, but she’d worry about Grams later. She had the strangest sensation that something was about to happen that had never happened before in Little Barlow.
She wasn’t far wrong. She hurried down the pavement to the police station, which was in fact merely a shop that had been converted into a front office and a single rear “cell,” which had once been a storeroom. Little Barlow’s constabulary was an outpost of the Greater Gloucestershire Constabulary, and Phoebe had always wondered what sin, great or small, had landed Chief Inspector Isaac Perkins so far from more illustrious duty.
That gentleman, along with his assistant, Constable Brannock, stood outside the station as a deep chorus of voices bombarded them. In vain the chief inspector held up his hands to forestall the jumble of questions and demands that came flying at him. From her stance across the street, Phoebe could make out words here and there, but nothing that made sense. She crept closer until she stood at the edge of the crowd, just as she had done when Keenan Ripley had his argument with Mr. Evers and that beastly American land developer.
What she now heard shocked her.
And elated her.
“You’re wrong about Keenan, Chief Inspector. I was with him that morning. I came by to order my next shipment of perry.” The owner of the baritone was Joe Murdock, proprietor of the Houndstooth Inn and Tavern. A white apron stretched across his barrel chest and draped over his long legs to cover his work clothes, as if he had quickly dried his hands and raced out from behind the oak bar in his public room.
“That’s right, and after Joe left Keenan, I passed by the orchard and saw Keenan out among the trees. He was harvesting pears like he does every September.” The man who spoke warmed to his explanation. “You see, Inspector Perkins, you can’t wait until the fruit falls from the tree, because then it’s overripe and not good for perry. Keenan knows exactly the right moment to pick them, and that’s why his perry is the best.”
The chief inspector merely scowled his acknowledgment of this piece of information.
“And before that,” another fellow called out, “I delivered mulch for the orchard. Keenan and I spoke. There is no way he’d have had time to go to the Hall for any reason, much less murder.”
One after another, the men of the village provided Keenan Ripley with alibis. The chief inspector took it all in with a bemused expression, while Constable Brannock regarded their “witnesses” with no small show of skepticism as he jotted down each word. As much as Phoebe wished to welcome these developments, she, too, had her doubts.
The one person who might legitimately provide Keenan Ripley with an alibi could, at this very moment, be explaining her actions to her own sister, Eva. The fact that Mr. Ripley’s friends and neighbors were attempting to extricate him from his jail cell proved that whoever had visited Mr. Ripley that morning had done so in secret. And secrets usually meant nothing good. Worry for Eva, her sister, and their families welled up inside Phoebe and warred with her hopes that Mr. Ripley would be exonerated.
Her gaze landed on a dark-haired man who, like her, stood on the sidelines. He watched the others intently, and once or twice he appeared about to speak, yet held his tongue and pressed his lips together. Phoebe recognized him as Fred Corbyn, who owned the farm neighboring Mr. Ripley’s orchard, and who depended on grazing rights to Mr. Ripley’s northeast pasture for his sheep.
Alibis continued to be offered at what could be considered a comical rate, but the voices faded from Phoebe’s ears as she studied Mr. Corbyn. His expression guarded, he shuffled his feet as if in a hurry to be off, and every now and again he balled his hands into fists. Anxiety? Fear? He had a lot to lose should Keenan Ripley be declared guilty and his orchard go on the auction block. Could Mr. Corbyn afford to purchase the pasture outright? Phoebe didn’t think so, especially with a wealthy American developer eager to acquire the land. And that meant he’d had reason to want Stephen Ripley out of the way.
Deciding she could learn little more from her present position, she backed away from the gathering. Many of the men’s wives continued watching from a distance, their necks craning and their expressions eager. They too must have wished for Keenan Ripley’s release; his perry made for happy menfolk, which in turn made for happy households. Phoebe scanned their faces, her gaze lighting on Fred Corbyn’s wife. A sturdy farm woman whose reddish brown curls were pulled back in a loose bun and secured by a kerchief, she lingered in the midst of several other women, yet somehow Phoebe had the impression that Mrs. Corbyn stood apart from the rest. Like her husband, she seemed tense, anxious, and watched her husband fixedly, as if afraid of taking her gaze off him.
But of course, this could mean nothing more than the Corbyns fearing the loss of an essential part of their livelihood. Phoebe backtracked along the road and approached the woman.
“Mrs. Corbyn.”
Startled, the farmwife flinched and blinked as she tore her attention away from her husband. “Lady Phoebe. Forgive me, I didn’t see you coming.”
“I just wished to thank you for your help the other day.”
“Help?”
“With the donations.”
“Ah, yes. You’re welcome.”
Phoebe gestured to the gathering at the police station. “It’s noble, what they’re trying to do here.”
Mrs. Corbyn pinched her lips. “Foolishness, if you ask me.”
“They’re trying to help their friend.”
“Excuse me for saying so, Lady Phoebe, but they’re trying to save their supply of perry.”
“That may be, but if it helps an innocent man, so much the better, no?”
“You’re right, of course.” Mrs. Corbyn sighed and shook her head. When she spoke again, Phoebe had to strain her ears to hear. “But some fools can’t accept change, even when it’s for the best.” Louder, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Phoebe, it’s time to collect my boys from school.” With that, Elaina Corbyn turned on her heel.
Phoebe turned back to the commotion in time to see the chief inspector wave his meaty hands to encourage the men to disperse. “All right, that’s enough from you lot. We’ll take this all into consideration.”
He didn’t sound very convincing, and murmurs of dissatisfaction accompanied the men as they moved off. One by one the wives reclaimed their husbands, slipping their arms through theirs and h
urrying them away. Some climbed into conveyances. Others set off on foot down Little Barlow’s narrow side streets and lanes.
Phoebe consulted her locket watch. She had been gone from the Huntfords’ farm a little more than half an hour. To pass the remaining time, she doubled back to the church to attend to the errand that had originally brought her into the village.
* * *
“Alice, what did you mean?” Eva followed her sister outside and to the edge of the kitchen garden, laid out in its tidy rows that stretched nearly as far as the chicken coop. Alice opened the gate and went through as if on an urgent mission in search of vegetables—if a need for vegetables could be urgent. But she made no attempt to stoop and pluck ripened pole beans, radishes, cauliflower, or beetroot. She strode along with her arms crossed in front of her while Eva hurried to catch up.
Then Eva slowed. After all, a sturdy fence lined with chicken wire enclosed the garden, so eventually Alice would be forced to halt her retreat. Behind her, Eva said, “Please explain what you meant when you said Keenan couldn’t have murdered Stephen. If you know something about his whereabouts that morning, you must say so.”
Alice stopped beside a patch of bushy carrot greens and turned with a defiant expression. “I spoke out of shock, Evie. Of course he couldn’t have done it. He’s not the murdering type.”
“I don’t believe Keenan could have committed murder either. But there is more pointing to his innocence than that, although he’s staying silent about it, apparently.”
“And what is this evidence of yours?” Alice spoke with an edge of disdain. “You’ve become quite the detective in recent years, haven’t you? You and your Lady Phoebe. Honestly, one or two correct hunches has quite gone to your head, hasn’t it?”
A Silent Stabbing Page 10