by Beth Byers
The church held center court in the village with the bell tower shadowing the graveyard and the cobblestone street. The tips of the wrought-iron fence around the graveyard didn’t end in the typical spade or arrow. Instead, they had been formed into lilies. Violet ran her fingers over them and made her way through the gate. There was something so peaceful about graveyards, a sense of stillness that filled the air where even nature herself seemed to stand respectful.
Many of the graves had tall crosses, but a few were looked over by stone angels. She paused under a particularly shocking angel. The angel’s hard gaze was narrowed down on a string of graves with more of an avenging pose than a welcoming one.
Violet’s brows lifted as she took in the attacking stance and then read the names of the graves guarded by the stone protector. Annabelle Jones, 17 March 1917 - 29 March 1920. Violet flinched for the parents. Then she gasped as she read Ethan Jones, 2 April 1916 - 29 March 1920. The same year! Down the row, she read the names and dates on four graves. Somewhere in this village, there were parents who had lost four children on the same day.
“A terrible tragedy,” a voice said from behind her.
Violet gasped and whirled, holding a hand to her chest. “Oh!”
“Oh, I am sorry my dear. They’re my nephews and niece. Little angels, they were. We suffer still for them these years later.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Violet looked down on the fresh flowers and then up at the man. He wasn’t so old. Perhaps in his mid-30s with hair just starting to thin, a powerful build, and soft blue eyes. She smiled at him, and he smiled back at her.
“My sister’s children, but they felt as though they could have been mine. Annie could already sing like an angel at three years old. She’d just turned three as you see.”
“I…” Violet played with her ring, helpless to know what to say.
“It’s all right.” The man leaned down to put flowers on the last grave. “You don’t have to try to comfort me or provide perspective. I know it’s a tragedy. I know our loss was steep. I know they are with God. Your expression…that’s all that I need.”
Violet nodded helplessly and then held out her hand. “Violet Carlyle.”
“Joseph Freckleton.”
“Lovely to meet you. My brother just bought the old Higgins place, so we’ve just come to visit.”
“Ah.” His lips curled in, and Violet was sure Mr. Freckleton was hiding a wide grin.
“Yes, that one. He bought the place, sight unseen, while zozzled. It seems he didn’t do so badly. What a lovely place this village is and what an amazing garden. I understand that there are even more lovely gardens here.”
“There are indeed. It is my sister’s husband who works for your brother. She married quite…low. Philip Jones. He’s the gardener.”
Violet’s gaze widened. Imagining the man who’d made her uncomfortable as a father. These were the graves of his children. “He’s quite talented.” She wasn’t quite able to hide her reaction to the comment.
“That he is,” Mr. Freckleton agreed with a smooth face. This was an educated man in front of Vi. He might be in a different class from herself, but she imagined there had been quite the row when his sister determined to marry a gardener. Violet could almost see it. Not for herself, but she could tell by the way that others reacted to Philip that he was a man many women found attractive. Attractive enough to dive through the classes?
Was she being terribly snobbish? Wasn’t the reason women had fought so hard was to be able to pursue their lives as they wanted? If Mr. Freckleton’s sister had wanted to marry someone that her family hadn’t approved of, wasn’t that her choice? Violet told herself it was and pasted a smile on her face. She hoped that her internal reflection hadn’t translated to her expression.
“It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Freckleton,” Violet said. “I hope that you have a delightful day. I wonder if you might show me the way to the rambling walk on the other side of this graveyard.”
Mr. Freckleton nodded and showed Violet the way to the walk.
She should, she thought, go back to her friends, but she still was unable to persuade herself to do so. She was tired of facing her brother’s venom and knew that if she went back, he’d lash out at her. She was going to wander through the wood, find her way to the little lake, make some terrible sketches, and visit with Jane Eyre.
The path rolled out almost eerily. Clouds had crossed over the sun, and the already cool day had turned a little chilly. Violet tucked her coat tighter about her neck and huddled into herself as the wind picked up. The path was hard-packed dirt, and even with the recent wetness was still firm. The way had been cleared so well that there weren’t things growing across the path or obscuring which way to go. It seemed to parallel the street in the village and ran up behind houses and gardens a hundred meters in.
Violet made her way down the path. The trees were just starting to blossom, and the pink buds overhead made it seem as though she’d entered a fairyland even with the deep shadows between the trees. Maybe because of them, the magic seemed to thicken. Fairyland was rather a mysterious place, wasn’t it, with hollows that just might lead one to their doom or little nooks where fantastical creatures might live.
Violet reached up to grab one of the blooms and tucked the stem into the bobby pin she used to hold her hair out of her face. Normally she held her hair back with a headband or hair piece, but she’d tucked back the loose locks with bobby pins to keep it out of her face while she rode the bicycle.
She felt a flash of regret for leaving her bicycle for the others to deal with, but Violet was sure that they could pay some local lad to ride it back to the Higgins house, and she felt as though Victor deserved the headache. Though, now that she thought of it, he probably had quite a terrible one.
She made her way between a series of bushes to say hello to some horses that were in a field nearby. A dappled grey walked over and nickered at Violet, who clucked back. The horse thrust its head over the gate, and Violet scratched the fellow just below his ear.
What a lovely beast. She glanced down, noted the sex, and said, “Aren’t you the prettiest man?” She hadn’t had a horse of her own since she was a girl, and she suddenly missed one terribly. Dogs were lovely creatures and she hadn’t realized she’d love Rouge quite as much as she did, however, horses were just so…brilliant.
Violet scratched him well and placed a kiss on his nose. He neighed at her and she laughed into his gaze.
There was a sound in the distance and both she and the horse started. Violet listened carefully. Was someone else on the path? Perhaps this fine boy’s owner coming home the back way?
Her heart began to inexplicably race and the horse snuffled, eyes rolling. Violet hoped it was her fear setting off the horse and not something that he sensed that she couldn’t. This is a safe little town, she told herself, stepping back onto the path after patting the horse again. He neighed at her again, but it sounded a little different.
The change scared her, making her heart speed even faster. She hurried down the path. Mrs. King had said that it came out a mere half-mile from Victor’s house. Vi could hurry back home, beating her friends possibly. Maybe she’d send Beatrice down to the village to let them know Vi had returned to the house.
Violet forced her mind to focus on anything but her fear. Only…there was something on the path. Something terrible. Something shaped like a body. Her eyes widened and she turned and spun, racing away from what she’d seen. She didn’t want a better look. She didn’t want to face it. She didn’t want a more detailed image in her mind, to haunt her later, in the nighttime.
Only…Violet stopped. She bit her lip and had to make fists before she could force herself back down the path. She had to check. To be sure.
She glanced around, taking in the scene. This portion of the trail was near the back of another house, one with roses just starting to bloom and windows that faced the trail. Any hope of putting this burden on someone else died when she saw the garden w
as empty.
She reached out and with shaking hands and turned the body onto his back. She noted the blood pool under his form, darkening the path. That much blood. That was no accident. It was a little harder than she realized, rolling the dead weight. Her gasp was the only sound. Staring, glassy eyes told her all she needed to know. The form truly was dead and nothing else was to be done.
The fact that she was staring at the body of Victor’s gardener was even more horrifying. She’d seen him kissing a woman, she’d seen him smirking at her—snide and too knowing. She’d seen his art in the gardens. She’d seen a woman throwing herself at him. She’d even seen the graves of his children. She’d never imagined seeing him like this.
Chapter 7
Violet ran as fast as she could go. She knew she shouldn’t have left her family. She had been childish, but she’d done it and now this is where she was. She was racing through the wood by herself, trying to reach Jack before he disappeared. She gasped as she ran, hoping that her conversation with Mr. Freckleton hadn’t wasted too much time. If Jack was gone, who would she turn to? The local police just felt wrong when she knew that a brilliant Scotland Yard man was around, one who knew her and cared for her.
She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into Jack’s arms and shove this problem on him. She ran past Freckleton, who shouted her name when he saw her come pelting out of the wood. She passed several locals, including the Mr. Baker and Agnes King.
Violet was holding her side at that point, and her weakened lungs from her illness were struggling to let her continue. She almost collapsed in relief as she hurried up the street towards the pub, where she could still see their bicycles outside.
She pushed through the door, moving past the spotty lad who blushed at her appearance. She tried to call Jack’s name, but she couldn’t get words out. She heaved, her hands on her knees as Victor said something no doubt biting. Violet gasped, barely hearing her friends as she tried to speak. “Ja…Jac…”
Trying to get a word out was the wrong choice, and she broke into a racking cough that had her moaning when she finished. She took a slow breath in, realizing that Kate was slowly rubbing her back.
“Jack…” Violet huffed. “Jack…”
“I’m right here.” He was a mere step away, watching Kate’s movements carefully.
“Body,” she coughed, wiping away the tears that had started streaming somewhere in her journey.
“Did you say body?” he demanded, voice sharp.
She nodded frantically as she coughed into a handkerchief.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, grabbing the lapels of his jacket. “On the path….behind the graveyard.” She pressed a hand against her chest where her lungs were burning and watched him jump into motion. He didn’t need anything more from her than her statement. She couldn’t help but consider the bookseller who’d mocked her choices in fiction. Any other man who knew her less well would have cross-examined her when they wouldn’t have questioned a man further.
The boy who’d helped Violet earlier was sent for the local bobbies while Victor cursed their poor luck. Jack, on the other hand, called for a notebook from the waiter and prepared to step into his professional role.
“Stop being such a beast,” Jack told Victor, “and take care of your sister.”
Victor nodded, coughing into his own handkerchief while Kate wrapped Violet up in a hug, rubbing her back.
“Denny, with me. Bloody hell, Victor, get the ladies home and go to bed before one of us is forced to make you the next victim.”
Victor choked on a laugh and blushed, nodding. “Vi…”
She looked up at him, her eyes welling with tears and then threw herself into his arms. She shuddered as he held her close. In his chest, she could hear him wheeze and knew she was doing the same. He said something over the top of her head, and a few minutes later, she had a drink pressed into her hand, and she was prompted to drink it while Victor ordered a car and arranged for the bicycles to be delivered.
When they reached the house, Mrs. Morganson—Hargreaves’s cousin—took one look at the twins and said, “To bed with both of you. For the love of goodness, are you children?”
Violet’s eyes welled with tears as she made her way up the steps. She’d added the image of a dead Philip Jones to her mind. It was seared there with the image of the four graves of his children. Of the bodies she’d seen before. Mr. Danvers dead in the library and Aunt Agatha in her coffin—it was more than she could handle.
“Violet, darling?” Lila asked. Violet jumped and turned, only realizing then that her dearest friend had followed her up the stairs. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head frantically. Lila’s lovely gaze was understanding. “What do you need?”
Violet sniffed, pressing a hand to her mouth, trying desperately to hold back the flood of tears that wanted to escape. “I…”
“Tea?”
Vi shook her head.
“Coffee? I can make Turkish coffee for you?”
Violet shook her head, biting her bottom lip hard enough to feel the burn through her lip.
“Chocolates? I can raid Denny’s stash for you?”
A tear slipped down Violet’s cheek.
“What if I were to follow you up to your room, get you into your kimono, and read you to sleep? Something frivolous and terrible.”
Violet paused and then nodded. Lila hooked her arm through Vi’s. “We have the worst luck, do we not?”
Violet didn’t really listen to what her friend was saying as they made their way to her room. Lila pulled back the covers on the bed while Violet changed. She didn’t want to pretend to be all right, so she let Lila put her to bed instead.
Violet didn’t listen to the story so much as the tenor of Lila’s familiar voice. The body had been lying there in the path. Just randomly placed? How had he died? Why had he died? Violet was already filling in possible answers. Perhaps it had been how she’d seen him with two women, both of whom were familiar in how they touched him.
She recalled that the servants who’d applied to Victor’s house hadn’t wanted to work with Philip. Why? What was it about him that made him so objectionable? Why had Beatrice been warned to be careful? Was he the type of man who forced a girl? Or perhaps he was the type of man who made you believe he cared when he really just wanted under a girl’s skirts?
Violet hadn’t realized that Lila had picked up the copy of Jane Eyre and found the place where Vi had placed a scrap of paper. It was that same place where Jane told Mr. Rochester that she was as worthy of love and respect as he was.
What was Mrs. Jones thinking on learning that her husband had died? Was she expecting more pain after losing her children? Were there more children? Orphans now? Did Mrs. Jones know her husband was a philanderer?
“Would you murder Denny if you found out he had a lover?” Violet asked Lila, cutting into a particularly emotionally wrought scene in the book.
“Ah,” Lila said, blinking rapidly. She examined Violet’s face. “Would you kill Jack?”
“We aren’t married,” Violet said, carefully. The sheer idea that he would eventually ask her to marry him—it made her heart skip a beat. Violet sniffed and looked up as Beatrice brought a tea tray in. She left the tray and let Rouge stay in the room.
The dog leapt onto the bed and stared at Violet with soulful eyes. She wasn’t sure anyone could love as purely and completely as a dog. Violet scratched Rouge’s little red head and glanced up at Lila, who wasn’t letting the question fade despite the interruption.
Lila stood and poured them both a cup of tea. She already knew how Violet wanted hers. A moment later, Lila returned to the bed and handed Violet her cup of tea.
“No, I wouldn’t kill Jack. But I might wish I had it in me. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to keep living with someone who had betrayed you that way.”
“Our mothers, aunts, and grandmothers have for centuries,” Lila reminded Violet.
/> Vi bit her lip. “It’s for reasons like that I am grateful things are changing. Think of the freedoms we have that they didn’t.”
“Hmmm.” Lila sipped her tea before her head tilted. “Denny would never cheat on me. It’s hateful of me to say that perhaps they should have chosen better.”
“Especially since you know that previous generations didn’t have as much freedom to choose as we have.”
Violet scratched Rouge’s belly as she thought over why she’d been asking the question. Lila rose and took a piece of typing paper from Violet’s stack, as well as a book and a pen.
“I know you’re thinking about the murder. What are you thinking? Was the gardener married? Is that why you asked about Denny stepping out on me? Or were you worried about Jack? Did he do something? What did he do? By Jove, Vi…you haven’t been in bed because of something that happened, have you?”
Violet laughed at the barrage of questions and shook her head. “No, Jack didn’t do anything to make me worry. He’s…”
Lila smiled softly as Violet trailed off. “Very different from Denny. Perfect for you. He won’t be unfaithful, I don’t think. He’s in love with you, but he’s also honorable. You don’t need to worry, Vi.”
Violet squeezed Lila’s hand. “You don’t worry, I suspect.”
Lila’s brows lifted and her smirk said she knew she was adored. “But the gardener’s wife? She wasn’t so lucky?”
Violet shook her head and described the women she’d seen with Philip Jones, one in the orchards here and one in the village. She went onto describe seeing the graves of the children.
Lila was nibbling her lip by the time Violet finished. “He was an impetuous one with the way he eyed us. Even Denny noticed, and my lad tends to be oblivious.”
Vi sneezed and held up her hand to examine herself. Had she overdone it and sent herself back to the sick bed?
“All right?” Lila asked.
Violet nodded.
With a sigh, Lila said, “I don’t think we can handle you and Victor being down and out at the same time. If he doesn’t have you to be a spoiled brat for, who will he strike out at next? Kate?”