A Silent Stabbing

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Do you want any of this? And if not, would any of it be suitable for your charity?”

  Flabbergasted, Phoebe ventured into the room. “This is almost the entirety of your wardrobe.”

  Julia grinned as she gazed around her. “Yes, very nearly. It’s all got to go.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “For beginners, none of it fits.” Julia placed a hand on her growing belly. “I should think that would be obvious.”

  “They don’t fit now, perhaps.” Phoebe rather had her doubts about that, for other than her midsection, Julia had so far gained very little weight and most of these fashions featured a drop waist and a loose, flowing fit. But if Julia wasn’t comfortable wearing these dresses for the rest of her pregnancy, she should of course set them aside. For now. “They will fit again, once the baby is born.”

  “I doubt that. They say a woman’s figure is never the same afterward. And anyway, none of these will be appropriate then.”

  Baffled, Phoebe went to the bed and lifted a stunning Paul Poiret dinner gown in teal silk faille with a drop waist and a cascading train. “Appropriate for what?” An assortment of crepe de chine, gold and silver lamé, rich-colored velvets, and gossamer lace peered up at Phoebe in supplication, as if to say, Save us from the trash heap!

  “For the mother of a peer, of course.”

  Phoebe dropped the gown back on the pile. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I’m not a girl anymore, Phoebe. I have responsibilities now. The mother of the next Viscount Annondale needs a certain dignity and sophistication, and I don’t feel any of these dresses meet the challenge.” She drifted to the chaise longue and lifted from one of its arms a long-sleeved tunic in a clingy silk knit from the house of Julia’s favorite designer, Coco Chanel. She held the frock up in front of her, shook her head, and held it out to Phoebe. “So I repeat my question. Do you want any of this, and what you don’t want for yourself, could you use in your charity drive?”

  “Does Grams know you’re disposing of your wardrobe?”

  “What’s it got to do with Grams? I’m the one carrying Gil’s heir.”

  “Maybe you are.” There was every chance the child could be a girl, which would change everything. But Phoebe kept this thought to herself. “Julia, you’re rushing things just a bit, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t think.” Julia issued one of her patented, careless shrugs. “Miss Greenwood is certain I’m having a son. She communicated with him, after all. And it isn’t as if Grams and Grampapa will have to finance my new wardrobe. I can buy whatever I want on credit and pay my bills once Gil’s heir is born.” She turned away, regarding several other frocks and gowns. “I’d ask Amelia next time she’s home, but very little of this seems her style.”

  A gasp drew Phoebe’s attention to the doorway, where Hetta stood openmouthed in apparent horror.

  “Oh, Hetta, there you are.” Julia waved her in. “I take it Eva spoke to you and everything’s settled?”

  “Ja, Miss Eva and I, we speak. I am most happy again. But . . .” Poor Hetta turned florid as she entered the room and saw the full extent of the chaos. “What is Madame doing?”

  “We need to get these boxed up—that is, if my sister would kindly answer my questions. Phoebe?”

  Sudden insight thrust Phoebe from her haze of bafflement. “Actually, I want it all. What I can’t use I’ll put away for Amelia—at least the more classic styles that won’t go out of fashion while she grows into them—and the rest I’ll bring to St. George’s for disbursement. Thank you, Julia. This is splendid of you. Why don’t you go downstairs now and let Hetta and me work on this.”

  As soon as Julia left the room, Phoebe turned to Hetta. “Quickly. We’ll store this all in the attic until my sister comes to her senses.”

  * * *

  In her sturdy walking shoes and only the slightest complaint left in her hip, Eva crossed the village with the best of intentions: try to see matters from Alice’s point of view, give her the benefit of the doubt, and apologize to her for the accusations with as much humility as she, Eva, could muster.

  If only she could get the possibility of Keenan Ripley swinging from the end of a rope out of her mind. There were times she considered doubling back to Foxwood Hall and leaving this errand for another day. Her conscience kept her plodding onward.

  Yet, her feet, as if of their own accord, veered off the path toward home and cut across the fields bordered by stone walls here, hedgerows there, with gates providing access from one to another. Her sister had taken a walk the morning of Stephen’s murder. Had that walk brought her to Keenan’s house?

  Eva rather loathed herself for taking the detour. But if one were to walk past her parents’ barns, outbuildings, and closer pastures, one would come upon Keenan’s northeast enclosure where Fred Corbyn grazed and watered his sheep. From there, it was only a few minutes due west to the Ripley homestead. Alice would have known that. Unable to resist the tug in that direction, Eva gave in with a little promise to herself that she’d walk twice as quickly to her parents’ farm once she was done seeing whatever it was she needed to see.

  She skirted the northeast pasture at its southernmost bordering wall. Where the land dipped, the Corbyns’ sheep drifted like clouds in a green sky around the artificial dew pond fed by the stream. Minutes later, Eva crossed an expanse of treed acreage—mostly tightly spaced pines and golden-leafed birch that created a windbreak around the orchard. The roof of the two-story brew house came into view—

  Eva cleared the trees and halted, arrested by the bustle of activity below her in Keenan’s orchard. She knew he had hired workers, and perhaps had given directions to them to continue the harvest while he sat in the village jail—but this!

  Just as when they had converged on the police station to provide Keenan with alibis, nearly every man in the village had gathered once again. They filled the orchard like an army, except instead of guns and cannons, they had brought ladders and bushel baskets. They were hard at work harvesting the pears, knowing that to leave them on the branch too long would change the taste of the perry they all relished. Why, there was the broad, lofty figure of Joe Murdock coming down one of the main aisles between the trees, issuing commands in a singsong baritone. Eva guessed he and most of the others had already drunk their fill of perry at Joe’s pub before setting to work. Not that they were unsteady on their feet, but the laughter that reached her ears spoke of especially high spirits as they plucked the pears from the trees.

  There were women, too, behaving a bit more sedately yet nonetheless cheerful as they carried brimming baskets to the brew house where the fruit would be pressed, strained, and funneled into the vats to begin the fermenting process. As she watched the almost choreographed efforts of Keenan Ripley’s neighbors, her heart swelled. Yes, it might only be cider, and in the grand scheme of the world perhaps not worth very much, but it was their cider. And Keenan was their neighbor and they weren’t about to let it all go to the devil.

  Whatever Eva had hoped to discover here no longer seemed important. Somehow, the exuberant goodwill of these villagers had rubbed off on her and she wished only to hurry to her parents’ farm and make amends with Alice.

  She went on her way, but when she once again reached the northeast pasture, she discovered the Corbyns’ sheep no longer alone. Mrs. Corbyn, with the help of her two young stepsons and an energetic, black and white border collie, were rounding up the herd and coaxing them through a gate back onto their own land. Bleating and baa-ing, the fluffy animals poured through the opening like a rush of whitewater rapids.

  Eva slowed down and returned the wave of one of the children, the older of the pair, judging from his height. They had had a sister born at the start of the war, the natural child of Fred and Elaina Corbyn and the only one, so far, that they had had together. The poor mite had died of the influenza in 1918. The entire village had shared in the Corbyns’ grief.

  Wearing a straw sun hat tied beneath her chin, Mr
s. Corbyn turned toward Eva just as the last of the sheep shuffled through the gate. Brushing her windblown bangs out of her eyes, she waved, and after shooing her children and the dog through as well, she secured the latch and started walking toward Eva. Despite the tufted grass and rocky hillocks, Mrs. Corbyn’s strides were long and even beneath a wide skirt that billowed out behind her. A short, belted tweed jacket that looked homemade, yet skillfully so, shielded her upper torso from the draft.

  “Hullo, Miss Huntford, what brings you by?”

  The question slightly embarrassed Eva, for she had no ready answer that did not include the truth. To stall for time, she smiled and held out her hand to shake Mrs. Corbyn’s, then cleared her throat. “I walked over from the Hall to see my parents, and some inclination drew me to the orchard.” There, she thought, that was as near the truth as needed to be.

  “You were worried about the harvest.” Elaina Corbyn dislodged something brown and gooey from the side of her Wellington boot by scraping it against a tuft of grass. She flashed Eva an apologetic look and tucked a strand of red-brown hair behind her ear. Eva pretended not to notice the offending dung, one of the hazards of livestock farming. She’d walked through her father’s cow pastures enough times to know that. “It’s good of you to care what becomes of Keenan Ripley’s business,” Mrs. Corbyn went on. “But as I’m sure you saw, he has good friends here.”

  “It was a heartening sight,” Eva replied with enthusiasm. “And I do hope Keenan is released soon. I don’t believe he would hurt anyone, much less his own brother.”

  “Nor do I, Miss Huntford.” Mrs. Corbyn paused to watch the progress of children, dog, and sheep as they trekked across the adjoining field. “Of course, they were never close as boys or young men.”

  “That’s true, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “I only meant it’s one more reason for the chief inspector to suspect Keenan. Had the brothers shared a close friendship, it would make it more unlikely in Mr. Perkins’s eyes that one would murder the other.”

  She spoke with a kind of authority, an assertiveness one didn’t always hear from the local wives hereabouts. The woman was several years older than Eva, but Eva remembered a more youthful Elaina Tibbetts, as she had been then, a lively, popular girl who had postponed marriage until she’d been good and ready, much to her parents’ frustration, at least according to Eva’s mother.

  “And then, of course,” Mrs. Corbyn went on, “there was Stephen’s insistence that they sell the orchard. That also appears to give Keenan a reason for wanting his brother out of the way.” She held up the flat of her hand when Eva started to protest. “I don’t believe it, but the chief inspector likely does.”

  Eva’s good spirits took a downward turn as the realities fell back into place. But Keenan wasn’t the only one who would wish to avoid the sale. There was also Joe Murdock, who made a good profit selling the Ripley perry in his tavern. There was also the husband of the woman before her, who needed the land for his sheep. “Speaking of the sale,” Eva said, “have you heard anything more about that? Is that developer still hanging about town?”

  “According to my husband, he is, and he still wants the land. Maybe he killed Stephen.”

  Eva immediately saw the flawed logic in that. “If the American had wished anyone out of the way, it would have been Keenan, not Stephen.” She regarded the rolling pastureland that surrounded them. “What will you and Mr. Corbyn do if the orchard does sell, and this parcel with it? You rather depend on it for the grazing and water rights, don’t you?” She hoped her question held the idle curiosity she had attempted to inject into it.

  “We do, but perhaps we’d be able to work out a new agreement.” The prospect obviously troubled the woman, for she frowned and sighed. “Or perhaps we’ll sell out and move up to London. You know, Miss Huntford, the city is full of opportunities, whereas farming is always fraught with uncertainties. Such as now. I tell you, the worries can eat away at a person.” The authority and confidence slipped a fraction, until Mrs. Corbyn squared her shoulders and shook away her doubts. “For now we simply have to believe Keenan will be released and all will go on as it has always done. The American can find some other village for his detestable resort.”

  “It’s good to be optimistic,” Eva agreed. “But at the same time one must be realistic. Even with Stephen Ripley gone, the bank could still decide to foreclose, and the land will be sold. Perhaps you and your husband could arrange to purchase it outright.”

  “Perhaps.” Her lips thinned and her gaze held no enthusiasm for the prospect. Eva realized she shouldn’t have made the suggestion, for it was unlikely the Corbyns had ready cash for anything but essentials. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Huntford. Please give my regards to your parents. Oh, and to your sister. Why, if memory serves, she and Keenan were once rather keen on each other, weren’t they?”

  Her smile never faltered, yet something in Elaina Corbyn’s reminiscence seemed designed to insinuate and accuse. Just as Eva herself had done last time she’d talked with Alice. Did Mrs. Corbyn know something? She had seen Alice and Keenan together at the church before Stephen died. Had she also seen Alice trudging across the fields on the morning of the murder, on her way to Keenan’s cottage?

  “That was a long time ago,” Eva said. “Much has happened since.”

  “Yes, much has happened to most of us,” the woman murmured. A sadness seemed to come over her. Was she thinking about her little daughter? “Well, I must get back to the boys before they burn down the house. Good day to you, Miss Huntford.”

  As Eva watched her go, she again thought back on a time when they were all younger. Had Alice and Elaina Tibbetts engaged in some sort of feud, one that perhaps continued to fester all these years later? She couldn’t remember anything, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been ill feelings between the two. Then again, perhaps Eva’s mention of this pasture potentially selling had gotten under Mrs. Corbyn’s skin.

  She headed for her parents’ farm, letting the conversation replay in her mind. Mrs. Corbyn had rather facetiously suggested the American developer murdered Stephen. Eva had immediately dismissed the possibility, but now she wondered. She doubted very much Stephen had had a change of heart about the orchard, but what about Horace Walker’s intentions? What if Keenan’s behavior in town the afternoon before his brother’s death had led Mr. Walker to see the benefit of disposing of both brothers—one through death, and the other through incrimination? This would ensure a foreclosure on the property, allowing Mr. Walker to purchase the land cheap and without the inconvenience of retaining Stephen as a shareholder.

  Horace Walker, Joe Murdock, Ed Corbyn . . . and even young William Gaff. They were all suspects, or should have been if Chief Inspector Perkins hadn’t made up his mind so quickly and arrested Keenan.

  Then there was Mr. Peele’s claim in his sister’s garden that Stephen Ripley had threatened to make trouble for William’s family; he had known something damaging about William’s father. Did that also make Ezra Gaff a suspect?

  Eva shook her head. Speculation achieved little without a scrap of evidence to back it up. There was the tweed cap found near the murder site. It could have belonged to any of them, or at least most of them. She didn’t think a wealthy American businessman would own such a cap—unless he’d been trying to disguise himself.

  Yet if such had been the case, the American would have been too clever to have made such a mistake in leaving it behind. It also suggested whoever killed Stephen had been in a frightful hurry to get away. Had William come along at that moment, prompting the murderer to flee? Or had William himself pushed Stephen from the ladder, then taken up the clipping shears and . . .

  So much depended on finding the boy. But a local youth who had spent his entire life in Little Barlow would be near to impossible to find unless he wished to be found.

  The back of her parents’ house came into view. Her mother stood framed in the kitchen window, and as Eva entered the garden, Mum waved an
d went to open the door.

  “Where are you coming from?” she asked with a laugh that revealed both her surprise and her delight to see Eva.

  “The Ripley orchard. I walked over from Foxwood Hall.” Her mother stood aside to let her enter the house. “Did you know the village men are harvesting the pears?”

  Her mother hugged her and pecked her cheek. “Your father heard about the plan last night at the Houndstooth. He might be over there now as well. Did you see him?”

  “I didn’t get close enough to see everyone who was there. I could make out Joe Murdock and a few others, though.”

  “Well, if your father isn’t there yet, he will be. The men are determined Keenan will have a successful harvest this year.”

  “So I gathered. I’m glad. How unfair if when he’s cleared of the charges against him, he’s released to find an orchard gone to rot.”

  “Indeed. Tea?”

  “I’ll put the kettle on.” Eva went to the range and hefted the iron pot. “I actually came to see Alice. She and I had a word or two . . . and I wish to apologize.” After filling the kettle, Eva struck a wooden match to light the burner.

  “I’m afraid Alice isn’t here, luv. Not just now, anyway.”

  Eva cast a glance over her shoulder, then turned full around. “Where is she? At Keenan’s, helping with the harvest? I did notice there were women helping carry in the pears.”

  “She might have done by now, but first she went into the village. To the police station to visit Keenan, poor dear.”

  A hollow sensation formed in Eva’s stomach. “Alice went to visit Keenan?”

  Her mother smiled sadly and nodded. “Brought him some of my scones and a few other things to make him more comfortable.”

  “Alice brought Keenan scones?”

  “Yes. And a pot of preserves. Is there something wrong with that? She merely wants to see to his comfort, such as it is.”

  “Alice told me she brought scones to Mrs. Verity the morning Stephen Ripley died.”