A Silent Stabbing

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “That certainly makes sense, Lady Annondale, and it’s most commendable of your grandfather to take such an interest in one small farmer.”

  “As I said, there is a larger picture, and my grandfather has always been able to see a situation as the sum of its parts. Lose one farmer, and little by little, our village could become a ghost town. You know as well as I do, as does my grandfather, how young people are flocking to the cities these days. We need to give them reasons to stay put.”

  “Yes, indeed, Lady Annondale.” Phoebe heard the relief in Mr. Evers’s voice. Apparently, he couldn’t have been comfortable with the prospect of foreclosing on the Ripley land and selling it off to a developer, even if the bank stood to profit from the venture. Phoebe didn’t doubt he had lost sleep in recent days. “Now, here’s what I have in mind for your grandfather. I believe it could work.”

  “And send that beastly Mr. Walker looking elsewhere for his land?” Julia raised a perfectly delineated and artificially darkened eyebrow.

  Phoebe took that as her cue to finally speak up. “I suppose it was Mr. Walker’s idea to force Keenan Ripley to sell,” she said. “Or was it the brother’s? Poor Stephen Ripley, gone after only a day working at Foxwood Hall.” After shaking her head sadly, she tilted her chin in her most convincing show of idle curiosity. “How did all this talk of selling come up? Stephen Ripley hadn’t so much as visited Little Barlow since before the war. How did he even know his brother was in arrears?”

  “I, er . . .” Mr. Evers patted his graying hair. “I really shouldn’t speak of Keenan Ripley’s private affairs, Lady Phoebe.”

  “Why ever not?” Julia showed her sternest expression, which prompted Mr. Evers to sit up straighter. “We’re here to help him, aren’t we?”

  She had him there. After stuttering a syllable or two, he expelled a breath of capitulation. “Actually, I believe someone in Little Barlow contacted Stephen Ripley and let him know Horace Walker was interested in purchasing land in the area.”

  “Mr. Walker must have been conducting his search on the sly,” Phoebe said. “Or our grandfather would certainly have heard of it.”

  Julia nodded. “Making quiet inquiries. But who here would have gotten involved, and how did they know the orchard was in financial straits?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” the banker said. “It’s possible Keenan confided in some of his friends, and one of them . . . well . . .”

  “Betrayed him,” Phoebe concluded, and Julia and Mr. Evers nodded. Someone betrayed Keenan by instigating the sale of his land, probably hoping to profit through a commission of sorts if the sale went through. So that person, at least, would not have murdered Stephen and risked preventing the sale.

  “But this is all neither here nor there.” Mr. Evers rubbed his hands together as if washing them clean of the subject. “Getting back to your grandfather’s proposal . . .” He looked past Phoebe’s shoulder, his eyebrows arching. “Why, here he is now.”

  With a gasp she couldn’t contain, Phoebe twisted in her seat to see not only Grampapa, but Grams as well, stepping into the lobby. Her eyes opened as wide as they could go, and then connected with Julia’s equally round gaze as they turned toward each other. Julia mouthed, “What now?” To which Phoebe only shook her head in bafflement.

  Mr. Evers seemed not to have noticed the urgent but silent communication between them. Rather, he came to his feet, straightened his suit coat, and walked around his desk with his hand extended.

  “Lord and Lady Wroxly, I didn’t expect you yet.”

  “Yet?” Clearly puzzled, Grampapa shook the man’s hand and waited for an explanation. Grams shot a glance at Phoebe and Julia but said nothing.

  “Yes, your granddaughters have been apprising me of your wishes concerning the Ripley property, and I’ve some preliminary ideas for you.”

  “Do you indeed?” Grampapa frowned as he studied Phoebe and Julia, but again waited for Mr. Evers to lead the conversation. Phoebe stole another glance at Grams, whose expression made her blood rush and her heart pound. She was about to be publicly humiliated and there was nothing she could do about it. Julia would be furious. Judging by the high color in her cheeks, she already was.

  “Yes, we’re interested to hear what you have to say, Mr. Evers.” Grams spoke smoothly, without as much as a ripple in her poise. “We’re just surprised you and our granddaughters have come up with a plan so quickly. But we were coming into the village anyway today and decided to stop in.”

  “Come this way, please.” Mr. Evers ushered them to the desk, whereupon both Phoebe and Julia came to their feet and offered their chairs. Mr. Evers made a few quick motions with his hands, and two more chairs were procured, along with tea and a plate of gingersnap biscuits.

  After the requisite pleasantries had been exchanged, Mr. Evers turned his papers around and pushed them across to Grampapa, who set his spectacles on his nose and leaned over to read.

  “Now, if it’s an investment you’re after,” the bank manager began, “I can work out a tiered schedule of payments that will accrue interest each year. . . .”

  Phoebe once again rose from her seat. “Perhaps Julia and I should go—”

  “You sit,” Grams commanded with a pointing finger. Then she smiled. “Your grandfather and I might want your highly learned opinion on this matter.” She darted a look at Julia and said drily, “Yours too.”

  * * *

  Having lingered in the village for nearly an hour, Eva held her breath in anticipation at the sight of the Renshaws’ motorcar. Lady Phoebe and her sister certainly hadn’t bargained on their grandparents showing up during their initial scheming with the bank manager.

  Perhaps scheming was too strong a word. Lady Phoebe had only the best intentions, both toward Keenan and her grandfather. She would never recommend the earl invest his money unwisely, and had wished to have a sound plan in place before going to him with her idea. Oh, but how did that kindly gentleman feel about finding his granddaughters at the bank speaking on his behalf without his knowledge? Eva’s face burned in sympathy for both Renshaw sisters. But more for Lady Phoebe, who would face her grandparents’ censure and her sister’s indignation at the same time.

  Finally, a doorman opened the street door and out streamed the earl and countess, arm in arm, with their granddaughters following close behind. No one looked particularly upset. But they didn’t look particularly happy either.

  Without a word Lady Annondale accepted the driver’s hand to slide into the backseat of the Rolls-Royce. Eva could see her ladyship’s lovely countenance through the window as she stared daggers out at the street. Eva could only imagine those daggers were meant for Lady Phoebe. The earl and countess stopped on the pavement and turned to speak to their younger granddaughter. Was a reprimand coming? Would harsh words drift their way to her ears?

  But the earl only laid his hand on Lady Phoebe’s shoulder and leaned to kiss her cheek. The countess did likewise, only brisker, the kiss no more than a perfunctory peck before she pivoted and entered the motorcar. Eva didn’t know if that meant Lady Wroxly was angry or not, because being demonstrative simply wasn’t her way. The earl spoke another few words to Lady Phoebe and followed his wife into the backseat.

  Lady Phoebe stood on the curb watching the Rolls-Royce pull away. She looked rather shell-shocked, and Eva hurried across the street to her.

  “My lady, what happened? What brought your grandparents to the bank today of all days?”

  Lady Phoebe continued to stare after the retreating motorcar until it reached the village’s ancient, medieval gates and turned out of sight. “You’ll never believe it, Eva.”

  “Then please tell me. Are they angry? Is your sister furious? Was it very awful?”

  Lady Phoebe finally turned to regard her. “Everything is all right.” She gave a laugh. “It turns out my darling, dearest grandfather had the exact same thought I had and came today to speak to Mr. Evers about helping Keenan Ripley keep his land. Have you ever in your
life heard of anything so perfect?” She laughed again. “Or so coincidental?”

  But then she frowned and nibbled her bottom lip. “Of course, neither he nor Grams were pleased that I took it upon myself to look into the matter without discussing it with them first.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes, but I think they’ve already forgiven me. And good heavens, Eva, you should have seen them. They utterly hid their surprise—their shock, really—at seeing Julia and me at Mr. Evers’s desk like a pair of practiced thieves. I saw a moment’s bewilderment in their eyes before they very smoothly joined the conversation as if the whole thing had been their idea in the first place.”

  “Did they really, my lady? How extraordinary.”

  “I suppose I should have gone to Grampapa first.”

  “I suppose so, my lady.”

  “I’d just wanted to have a sound plan in place first.” She looked regretful for one moment before lifting her eyebrows. “How did your day go? Have you learned anything useful?”

  Eva sighed. “I haven’t been able to track down my sister. She was out when I reached home, but listen to this, my lady. She’d gone to the police station to bring Keenan Ripley some of my mum’s freshly baked scones.”

  Lady Phoebe’s eyebrows rose higher. “Did you say scones?”

  “I did, just as someone brought scones to Keenan’s house the morning of the murder. Alice and Mum both claimed she brought those scones to the widow Verity’s house, but who’s to say she didn’t save some for Keenan? Anyway, I came looking for her here in the village thinking I’d pass her on the road if she was on her way home, but I never saw a sign of her. It’s almost as if she’s purposely avoiding me. I did run into someone else though.”

  Lady Phoebe studied her. “I can see by your scowl it wasn’t a pleasant encounter.”

  “No, indeed. I went to the post office to see if Alice might be checking for letters, and out strides Horace Walker, nearly hitting me with the door. What a cur he is, my lady.”

  Lady Phoebe stepped closer, her expression gone serious. “What did he say? He didn’t accost you, did he?”

  “He didn’t lay a hand on me, rest assured. First I told him how the villagers had gathered at Keenan’s orchard to harvest the pears. You should have seen it—never a more heartening sight. But that awful man had the audacity to say their actions were lucky for him, as it will be easier to clear away the trees without the fruit clinging to them.”

  “Why, that beastly man.”

  “Beastly is right, my lady. And then he immediately had a run-in with Joe Murdock.”

  “It sounds as though Mr. Walker had a busy morning.”

  Eva nodded. “After he left me, he passed by the Houndstooth, and Joe came striding out holding that club he keeps behind the bar.”

  “Mr. Murdock keeps a club behind his bar?”

  “Well, you know how men can be after a long day’s work and several pints.” On second thought, Eva realized, Lady Phoebe wouldn’t know much about that. Men of her class enjoyed brandy and cigars and quiet conversation after a day of surveying their lands and perusing the account books with their solicitors. “Anyway, Joe was rather threatening. His very bearing, not to mention that wooden club, implied he’d have liked nothing more than to wallop Mr. Walker on the side of the head.”

  “What did Mr. Walker do?”

  “He threatened in the best way a man like that knows how, with legal action against Joe. Finally, I had to step between them, or who knows how it might have ended.”

  Lady Phoebe looked alarmed. “Eva, you shouldn’t have.”

  “No, it was all right. It helped defuse matters. Both men walked away with their heads and their liberty intact.”

  “Well, I can’t blame Joe Murdock. There are times I’d like to take a club to Mr. Walker’s head and knock some sense into him. Do try to steer clear of him from now on, though.”

  “You can bet on that, my lady. I’ve had quite enough of him, thank you.” She decided her mistress didn’t need to know the worst of her conversation with Horace Walker.

  CHAPTER 11

  Upon arriving home, Phoebe fully expected a summons from her grandparents, and feared they would demand a full account of her intentions and motives in going to the bank. Mr. Giles delivered no such summons as he took her overcoat, and she even checked with the head footman, Vernon, just in case the message had slipped Mr. Giles’s often-clouded mind.

  Off the hook in the meantime, she arranged to have tea served in the Petite Parlor for herself and Eva. Phoebe loved the Petite Parlor; it had always been her favorite room. Semiround, it occupied the ground floor of the turret in the oldest part of the house. From the tranquil pale green of the walls, to the crisp white woodwork and spacious coffered ceiling, to the lovely garden views, the Petite Parlor had always provided a sense of homey comfort lacking in the more formal rooms.

  The family sometimes used the room for informal meals, and she and Eva took a seat now at the round table as Vernon and an assistant brought in tea. She didn’t miss Eva’s look of apology and even embarrassment at the two young men, as if to tell them she knew she didn’t belong in this part of the house, but her mistress insisted and what was she to do?

  If they saw the look they gave no indication, and neither did Phoebe. It had long been a point of amiable contention between her and her lady’s maid on how strictly the boundaries between them should be maintained. In Eva’s mind, they should never sit together at the same table—in fact, it made Eva uncomfortable to sit at all in Phoebe’s presence. But Eva had been raised with the staunch traditions of the prewar years, while Phoebe had grown up during the war, her formative years spent working side by side with servants and villagers alike to provide supplies for the soldiers on the Continent. Those efforts had taught her that the similarities among people were far greater than the differences.

  “I did learn something else that might be significant,” Phoebe said as she poured their tea. “It seems Mr. Walker had been quietly making inquiries about available land, and someone in Little Barlow contacted Stephen Ripley to let him know.”

  Eva dropped a lump of sugar into her cup. “I’ve wondered how those two men found each other. Does Mr. Evers know who this person is?”

  Phoebe shook her head. She poured a trickle of cream into her tea and slowly stirred. “He said he doesn’t. Perhaps he merely didn’t wish to divulge confidential information. I don’t think this person would have murdered Stephen Ripley, but he might be another piece of the puzzle that will lead to the killer. So I’ve been asking myself, who in this village knew of Keenan Ripley’s financial troubles and stood to gain from the land being sold?”

  “Keenan’s troubles were probably common knowledge, I’m afraid. But I can’t imagine who in Little Barlow would benefit from the sale. Not as Stephen Ripley would have benefited.”

  “Nor can I.”

  Eva sighed, and Phoebe regarded her quizzically. “Tell me the truth. Am I forcing you to involve yourself in something you’d rather leave alone? I realize this time events are uncommonly personal for you.” The name Alice hovered unspoken between them.

  Eva hesitated a moment, staring down at her hands before meeting Phoebe’s gaze. “My lady, it’s always been personal for me. What affects you and your family affects me. Yes, this time it’s my family involved, or possibly so, but that makes me want to find the truth all the more. My sigh was one of perplexity, not reluctance.”

  “I’m glad.” Phoebe reached over and set a hand on Eva’s wrist. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “That’s something you’ll never have to find out, my lady.”

  Phoebe smiled and made no reply. She believed fully that if she asked it of her lady’s maid, Eva would forgo marriage, a family, and a home of her own indefinitely. Perhaps forever.

  For now, it was true, Phoebe needed her—but as so much more than a maid. Someday, however, Phoebe must learn to get on without her, for she wanted her dear f
riend to find her own happiness and distinct place in the world. Phoebe could fairly well guess with whom Eva would find that happiness, but she also knew that on a constable’s salary, Miles Brannock could not yet afford to marry and provide for a family. Phoebe believed women should have the right to pursue a career and earn their own money, but for most women options were severely limited. There needed to be at least one dependable income, and it was typically the husband’s.

  Eva broke the silence. “We’re always looking for connections, my lady. We need a strong connection between the person who wanted the sale and the person who didn’t.”

  “But that could include countless people here in the village.”

  “Not everyone in the village is connected, at least not financially. We need to look for individuals who might have been working at cross purposes, if you see what I mean.”

  “Hmm. I think I do. In other words, one person got involved and contacted Stephen Ripley about a potential land sale, and another found out and decided to put a stop to it, because it might jeopardize their own financial well-being.”

  “Precisely, my lady. So, for instance, perhaps one of Joe Murdock’s workers—his cook or one of his barkeeps—instigated the sale of Keenan’s land, and Joe Murdock got wind of it, feared the demise of his best-selling product—”

  “Perry.”

  “Yes, and made sure the sale never went through.” Eva took on a look of alarm. “Not that I mean to incriminate Joe Murdock, you understand. I only used him as an example. But I believe this is the sort of close connection we must look for. If we find whoever contacted Stephen, we might be able to figure out who the murderer is, or at least narrow down a list of suspects.”

  “Identifying the owner of the flat cap found near Stephen Ripley’s body would help, I should think.”

  “Then as soon as we’re done here, I’ll ring Miles and see if he’s learned anything.” Eva went quiet and fingered the table linen before looking up again. “My lady, I’m afraid I might have bungled a chance to find out anything more from the American.”