A Silent Stabbing

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Eva ignored the jibe. “The morning of the murder, I was in Keenan’s cottage. Lady Phoebe and I went to tell Keenan about his brother’s death. While we were there it was obvious he’d had company for breakfast.”

  “And? What of it?”

  “We believe it was a woman, Alice.”

  “All right, then Keenan has a sweetheart. Perhaps she can vouch for his whereabouts that morning.”

  “Yes, perhaps she can.” Eva looked pointedly at her sister and waited.

  Alice’s expression turned puzzled. Then understanding dawned on her features. “You think it was me?”

  “Was it?”

  “Certainly not. Why would you think that?”

  “Were you home, here, that morning?”

  “Of course I was. . . .” Alice trailed off, suddenly looking none too certain.

  “Alice? Where were you?”

  “Well . . . I went for a walk. Through the pastures.”

  “Which pastures?”

  “Ours. Mum’s and Dad’s. And to Mrs. Verity’s cottage. I wished to visit with her. She was delighted to see me, I’ll have you know.”

  Mrs. Verity was an elderly widow who used to give piano lessons to the local girls along with teaching them useful skills such as sewing and gardening. Things their own mothers were sometimes too busy to show them. She had done so for very little pay, and that mostly in eggs and produce. These days, Eva occasionally stopped in to check on her as well. “Then you didn’t wander onto Keenan’s land?”

  “No. Well, I don’t know, I may have done. People do walk, Evie, and there aren’t always distinct barriers. I might have crossed a few stone walls, I don’t remember.”

  “Mrs. Verity doesn’t live very far from here. Yet you took such a long walk you can’t say where you went?”

  “I needed to think.”

  “And did you bring a batch of scones with you?”

  Alice once again gaped at Eva in puzzlement. Then anger spread a mottled blush across her face. “As a matter of fact, Evie, I did. Mum and I made scones that morning. Is it a crime to share them with dear old friends?”

  “No, it’s no crime.”

  “Then what are you going on about?”

  “Only that you seemed to have walked farther that morning than Mrs. Verity’s house. And someone visited Keenan and brought scones. Again, was it you, Alice?”

  “You’re out of line and I’ve had more than enough of this.” She pushed past Eva and headed for the gate. There she stopped and whirled about. “I’m a married woman, and I very much resent your accusations.” She opened the gate and resumed her course toward the house.

  “Alice, wait.” Her sister stopped again, but this time did not turn back around. Eva exited the garden after her. “Why did you come to Little Barlow now? Why not wait for the holidays, when the whole family might have come?”

  “I felt like getting away.” The answer came from between clenched teeth.

  “Yes, but why now? Is there . . . is there something wrong at home? Some reason you’re not happy there? Troubles with Oliver? Is that the reason for your abrupt visit?”

  “Abrupt visit?” Alice turned to face her, her eyebrows rising in scorn. “Am I not allowed to see my parents, my home? Really, Evie, you’ve taken leave of your senses, imagining all sorts of diabolical things where none exist. Leave it alone. If Keenan is innocent, which I believe he is, he’ll come out all right in the end. But I’ve got nothing to do with it. Go back to Foxwood Hall, where you belong, and take your accusations and your insinuations with you.”

  Eva watched her stalk away. The encounter left her wretched, yet a little voice inside her continued to whisper that Alice hadn’t been entirely truthful, that she had something she was determined to hide. And that made Eva fear for her sister, and for the future.

  CHAPTER 8

  In the morning, Phoebe once again steered the Vauxhall along the road to Cheltenham. Instead of Julia, it was Eva beside her, making a valiant effort not to appear frightened of the ride. Or perhaps her fears had abated, for Phoebe took special care with this journey, keeping light pressure on the gas pedal and rounding the bends cautiously.

  It had been no easy task determining their destination. No one at home knew where Alfred Peele currently resided, except that he had moved in with his sister somewhere on the outskirts of Cheltenham. As they were about to give up on learning anything more, Phoebe remembered that Mr. Giles kept meticulous records on every employee on the estate, including the names and locations of their next of kin. At least, he used to do so, before he’d fallen off his usual routine. She and Eva had had to jog his memory of not only which file cabinet in his pantry held the information, but where he had stashed the key.

  Before they could do that, however, Phoebe, with Eva’s help, had had to persuade Mr. Giles of the necessity of divulging such personal information about the former head gardener. He might have become forgetful of daily occurrences, but he rigidly adhered to his principles.

  On the south edge of the city, where the spires of the Chapel of St. Mary and St. George were silhouetted against a bright autumn sky, Phoebe headed east along the campus of Cheltenham College. She found her way to Sandford Road, and to a large, Victorian house sporting a turret and a wraparound veranda. Phoebe pulled up and cut the engine.

  “This is it,” she announced, and regarded the blue clapboard façade with its bright gingerbread trim. “Lovely.”

  Eva let herself out the passenger side and went around to help Phoebe out. “You said she takes in lodgers.”

  “Mr. Giles indicated she started doing so when her husband died. Mostly she lets to tutors from the school. And her brother now, too, apparently.” She craned her neck as if that might help her to see through walls. “I do hope Mr. Peele is in.”

  They identified themselves to the girl who opened the door simply as Miss Shaw and Miss Huntford, friends of Mr. Peele’s from Little Barlow. The girl invited them into a comfortably appointed receiving parlor and disappeared down a hallway. Moments later an elderly woman greeted them. She wore a fashionable if ready-made day dress, low pumps, and a conservative string of pearls around her neck. She was Mr. Peele’s sister, Mrs. Riordan, she told them, and offered them tea. They declined, and the woman’s countenance turned serious.

  “You say you are friends of my brother.”

  “That’s right,” Phoebe said. “Is he in?”

  The woman’s dark, slightly bloodshot eyes regarded her. Her head tilted. “You’re Lady Phoebe.”

  “Oh.” The heat of embarrassment flooded Phoebe’s face. “Yes, I am. I’m sorry for not saying so directly, but I didn’t wish to upset the household routine. How did you recognize me?”

  The woman’s lips curled in a shrewd smile. “From your description, of course. My brother has often written about you, all of you, at Foxwood Hall. Now that he’s here, you are all he talks about.” She held out a hand, gesturing for Phoebe and Eva to sit. She chose a seat for herself in a delicate armchair that faced away from the front windows, throwing her lined face into shadow. Phoebe noticed she moved with confident grace, and she guessed Mr. Peele’s sister hadn’t always had to take in borders, not until widowhood had forced the issue. She wondered what Mr. Riordan’s profession had been. “I believe my brother is sorry he left his position,” she said.

  The woman’s candor encouraged Phoebe to ask, “Did he say why he left?”

  “Only that it was time he retired. I believe something is troubling him and I’ve tried to find out what, but he only tells me not to worry.” Mrs. Riordan’s gaze sharpened. “He’s not ill, is he? It would be so like Alfred not to tell anyone if he were seriously ill.”

  “No,” Phoebe hastened to reassure her, then settled back in her chair. “At least, not that I know of. That might explain things. . . .” But on second thought, she shook her head. “No, his leaving Foxwood Hall coincided with the arrival of a former village man who immediately took over the position. It all seemed rather rus
hed and . . . well . . . odd.”

  “Odd how, Lady Phoebe?”

  Phoebe exchanged a glance with Eva, who nodded her encouragement. “The truth is, Mrs. Riordan, the new head gardener died three days ago. Under suspicious circumstances.”

  “Good heavens.” The woman’s hand went to her pearls. Her initial shock quickly gave way to caution. “I assure you, my brother was already living here at that time. I can vouch for him. So if you’re thinking . . .”

  “No, we’re most certainly not.” Phoebe raised the flats of her hands to avert the very notion. “Mr. Peele put in too many years of good service for any of us at Foxwood Hall to suspect him of something as heinous as murder. We are here merely to ask him why he left us so suddenly, and whether anyone, such as the man who died, persuaded him to go.”

  “And another thing,” Eva put in, speaking for the first time. She crossed her ankles and leaned slightly forward in a manner that invited confidence. “There is the matter of his young assistant, William. Perhaps Mr. Peele has mentioned him?” The woman nodded, and Eva continued. “He’s been missing since the new head gardener died. He’s just a boy, you see. Perhaps your brother might know where we can find him.”

  One hand still touching her pearls as if they provided comfort, Mrs. Riordan studied Phoebe and Eva silently, her tired eyes running over them repeatedly while she appeared to weigh her options. Finally, she stood. “Follow me, please.”

  She led them through the house and out to the garden. A table and chairs filled one corner of a flagstone terrace. Two wide steps led down to a gravel path that meandered through manicured shrubbery, various species of rosebushes, and flower beds that encircled shade trees touched with autumn fire. The steady sound of raking drew Phoebe’s gaze across the garden, where, beside a freshly painted shed, Mr. Peele toiled to gather up the clippings of a box hedge. He might have retired from his position at Foxwood Hall, but he certainly hadn’t lost his love of gardening. Or perhaps after so many years he simply didn’t know how else to occupy his time.

  His sister called to him, and he looked up to regard Phoebe and Eva with astonishment. “Why, Lady Phoebe. And Miss Huntford. Whatever are you doing here?” He pulled off his work gloves and dropped them to the ground.

  When he joined them on the terrace, they took seats around the table. Again, Phoebe and Eva declined Mrs. Riordan’s offer of tea. Phoebe folded her hands on the iron tabletop. “Mr. Peele, many of us at Foxwood Hall, both above and below stairs, were dismayed at your leaving. It was all so sudden.”

  “Yes, I’m terribly sorry about that, my lady. I . . . decided it was simply time to move on.”

  Phoebe tried to school the doubt from her expression as she once again wondered why a man retired without having secured a home of his own. A lesser servant, perhaps, who hadn’t laid enough money by, might retire and move in with relatives. But not a head gardener who had held his position for nearly two decades. When upper servants retired, they tended to have their latter years carefully planned out—home, expenditures, even hobbies, leaving little to chance. A servant who couldn’t determine the course of his future simply didn’t retire, unless he became so infirm as to be incapable of performing his duties. But that didn’t appear to be the case here, for Mr. Peele seemed as fit as he had ever been.

  While he continued to explain his actions in the vaguest of terms and apologize for his haste in leaving Little Barlow, Phoebe decided it was time to take a more direct approach. “Mr. Peele, did Stephen Ripley coerce you into leaving Foxwood Hall? Did he threaten you?”

  His mouth became a thin line and he dropped his gaze. Phoebe believed she had her answer, or at least part of it, although she could guess at the rest. A glance at Eva suggested she, too, could fill in the blanks.

  “Alfred.” His sister’s voice held a note of alarm. “Is this true? Were you threatened?”

  “It was nothing as sinister as all that.” He reached over to pat her hand.

  “Do not patronize me,” she snapped, and slid her hand free with a show of wounded dignity. “Why else would you leave your very good position at Foxwood Hall, a situation you loved, by your own account, to come molder here with me?”

  Sunlight gleamed on his silver hair and he looked down at the table in defeat. He let go a sigh. “I merely made room for a younger man.”

  “Stephen Ripley,” Phoebe persisted.

  He nodded. “Yes, a well-qualified gardener who needed the position more than I did.”

  “Is that what he told you?” Eva asked quietly. “Or is that what you told yourself, Mr. Peele, to make leaving more palatable?”

  “Please tell us what happened,” Phoebe urged him.

  With another, heavier sigh, he launched into his story. “Stephen Ripley began by writing to me, telling me urgent family business was bringing him back to Little Barlow, and that when he arrived he wished to speak to me directly. I was puzzled, to say the least. I couldn’t for the life of me imagine how I could help him with family business. It’s not as though I knew the Ripleys well at all. When he and I met nearly two weeks ago, he told me his brother had made a hash of the orchard and brewery, and that the bank would be foreclosing. While I sympathized, again I didn’t see what any of it had to do with me. Then he told me he needed employment to help manage the bills, and that if he had a good position with steady income, the bank would be willing to negotiate with him.”

  “Didn’t it seem strange to you that he didn’t go to work with his brother and try to make their brewing business solvent?” Phoebe asked.

  “It did, indeed, Lady Phoebe. And I said as much. And that’s when . . .”

  “What did he do?” Eva prompted him when he compressed his lips.

  “Yes, all right, he made threats. Said he’d find a way to get William fired, and even make trouble for his parents. He said he knew something damaging about William’s father, and about other servants at Foxwood Hall. He wouldn’t tell me what, but something in his eyes made me believe he’d make good on his threats.”

  The more Phoebe learned about Stephen Ripley, the more she realized he must have made many enemies, both here in the Cotswolds and at his former home in Dorset. She wondered how two brothers could be so different, and what drove a man like Stephen Ripley to wreak such havoc among well-meaning, law-abiding people. “You should have gone to my grandfather.”

  The man shook his head. “Forgive me for saying it, but the earl isn’t a young man anymore. Neither am I. I thought it best to go rather than bring trouble upon William’s family and the others Stephen promised to hurt. He promised me he’d do his best as a gardener, and he did bring a glowing recommendation with him from Dorset. Even your grandfather thought so.”

  His sister cast a stern look at Phoebe. “I think you should tell him what’s happened since.”

  Mr. Peele looked mystified at that, and Phoebe nodded. “Mr. Peele, Stephen Ripley is dead. He was murdered three days ago.”

  The former gardener clutched at his chest. “Murdered. Dear Lord. How?”

  “With his own clipping shears,” Eva told him. “And now we can’t find William and we’re very worried about him. Do you know where the boy might go if he were frightened and wished to hide?”

  “Do you think William did this?” Mr. Peele spoke with disbelief.

  “In all honesty, we don’t know.” Phoebe tipped her head in apology. “But we—Eva and I—don’t believe so, and neither do the police, apparently. They have arrested Keenan Ripley.” As Mr. Peele’s mouth dropped open, Phoebe hurried on. “We don’t think he’s guilty either. We don’t know who did this. Yet,” she added pointedly.

  Mr. Peele looked down at his hands, thick, callused, and mottled with old scars. “I feel I made a terrible mistake leaving as I did.”

  “We understand Stephen wanted your position,” Eva said, “but why such urgency that you had to leave without bidding everyone good-bye?”

  “Stephen made his threats and ordered me gone. I thought, if I had to face all
of you belowstairs, someone would see in my expression that I didn’t wish to leave. And then they’d start asking questions, and trouble would follow. I thought it best simply to go.”

  Phoebe leaned back and considered. Then, to Eva, she said, “Stephen Ripley played his hand well, at least that far. He wanted Mr. Peele out of the way quickly and succeeded in that, but why?”

  “It must have had something to do with the sale of the orchard,” Eva said.

  “The sale of the orchard?” Obviously, this additional news took Mr. Peele by surprise. “From what I understand, Keenan Ripley would never sell that land. It’s his birthright.”

  Phoebe took a moment to explain the situation. Then she added, “Stephen needed immediate employment, but why? It wasn’t to prevent the orchard from going on the auction block.”

  Eva frowned in concentration. “Perhaps it wasn’t a straightforward sale. Perhaps Stephen wasn’t actually relinquishing his share in the orchard, but was going to remain as a stakeholder.”

  “In that case, the bank might require a source of income on record,” Mrs. Riordan suggested, her expression once again shrewd.

  Her brother nodded his agreement. “It could well have been an arrangement like that, especially if the orchard was losing money. All interested parties would need to show themselves to be self-sufficient, at least until the business was back on its feet.” His fist came down lightly on the table. “That swindler, trying to cheat his brother that way. I wish I had gone to your grandfather. And I wish I’d refused to leave my job. I should have stood up to that mongrel.”

  “And it might have been you lying in the morgue,” his sister pointed out matter-of-factly. “The man obviously lacked scruples. I say he got what was coming to him.”

  “Now, Catherine, you mustn’t say things like that,” he admonished, but with a gleam in his eye that said otherwise.

  “Mr. Peele, now that you know what happened,” Phoebe said, “will you consider returning to work at Foxwood Hall?”

  “Perhaps, if your grandfather wishes it.”