by Beth Byers
Violet sighed. Those thoughts weren’t making her any happier. She had bathed and dressed, not thinking too much about what she wore for once. She glanced down, noted the grey and blue plaid dress with a drop waist and pleats and thought they’d go well with her sensible shoes.
The storm had ended but the lights were still out. She supposed that someone was working on getting things fixed for them. Violet wasn’t concerned. The day had dawned bright and blue, and Violet decided that she wanted to go home to London.
That wasn’t going to happen as long as Jack was investigating into this case. She could leave him and Victor, get on the train with her maid, and go home. She didn’t want to do that either. She rubbed her hand over the back of her neck. If she wanted to get out of this house and not leave Jack and Victor behind, then the killer must be found.
Violet considered what she knew about what had happened to Philip Jones as she paced her bedroom. She grabbed her journal and pulled it out, looking over the lackadaisical notes that she’d made with Lila. Slowly, as if bending her will to the distasteful task, Violet seated herself at the desk in her bedroom, frowning down at the journal. She flipped to the blank pages at the back and wrote:
PHILIP JONES— murdered in the wood. Seen with two separate women—neither of whom had been his wife. His wife had been beaten. Had Philip committed that crime? Was it something to do with the house? Mrs. King guessed there might be something valuable inside. Perhaps when Philip was keeping an eye on the house, he’d stolen something? If so, maybe someone had realized?
Violet tapped her pen against her mouth, thinking of all the reasons people killed each other. Money, love, jealousy, hatred. Who had emotions that ran that deep about Philip Jones? As she asked herself the question, she was surprised that she had so many answers.
“Violet,” she told herself, “you are a right snob.”
The question of why kill a gardener was hitting her again, but this time she was forcing herself to answer. You killed him because you loved him, wanted something from him, or hated him. You killed him because there was more to the man than planting roses and trimming hedges. You killed him because you were a bad person, and he had placed himself on the wrong side of you. Maybe you killed him because he was a bad person, but in the end—he was murdered because he wasn’t just a side character in Violet’s life. He was, in fact, the protagonist of his own story as everyone was, regardless of their station.
Violet ended her scold. She titled the next section of her journal SUSPECTS.
MRS. JONES— Someone had given her a beating. Had it been her husband? If so, perhaps she’d finally had enough. Or had it been someone else? Maybe Jones had gone after the person who’d hurt his wife and lost?
Violet’s mouth twisted. Mrs. Jones hadn’t told Jack who had hurt her. Would she tell a woman? Perhaps a former employer who’d come with an offer to pay for the funeral or give her a good start? Violet guessed that Mrs. Jones needed help, and if she wasn’t the killer, the right thing to do would be to visit her, give condolences, and offer support.
The next person Violet wrote was the friendly Mr. Freckleton.
JOSEPH FRECKLETON—He lost his niece and nephews in one tragedy and was still affected. What happened? If Jones had been the one who had hurt Freckleton’s sister, maybe it was Freckleton who had finally reached his limits? Then again, why after all this time?
It didn’t add up for Violet. Victor would murder a man for beating Violet. That being said, however, he was a particularly protective brother. After this many years of marriage, would Freckleton suddenly step in? Violet didn’t see that either. She frowned down at her journal and left space for the questions that didn’t have answers.
A part of her wanted to remove him from the list. Any man who mourned nieces and nephews and was so friendly to random strangers didn’t strike Violet as a murderer. She supposed, however, that he had to be kept on if she were to be thorough.
Violet turned her thoughts from the brother and moved onto the next person. He seemed like a much likelier candidate to Vi.
JAMES BAKER— The man had discovered his wife right after an assignation. She had smoothed her looks out pretty well for what Violet had seen, but what if Mr. Baker knew his wife had been having an affair with Philip Jones?
Violet rather thought James Baker would have the same ingrained prejudices against a gardener that Violet had discovered she possessed. How would he feel that his seemingly respectable wife was conducting an affair in the wood? Violet suspected any man would be furious about his wife stepping out on him. Of course he would, but perhaps there was a special kind of rage when prejudices came into play?
Beatrice peeked into the bedroom and said, “Oh Lady Violet, I am happy to see you are up. Mrs. Lila and Miss Kate wanted to ensure you were all right when you didn’t come down for breakfast.”
“Feared I’d dove into a relapse? Perhaps I have swooned over the things I’ve seen. Yes, I’m all right, darling. I have just been working some things out in my mind.”
Violet examined her maid. Beatrice, Violet suddenly realized, was someone you would kill over. Perhaps Vi’s prejudice wasn’t as ingrained as she’d thought. Perhaps it wasn’t so much that Jones was a gardener but that she hadn’t liked Jones. Or maybe Vi’s prejudices were sneakier, bypassing the servants she cared for and focusing only on the ones she had no feelings over. Either way, she vowed to adjust her thinking.
“Perhaps, luv, you might bring me a tea tray and some toast and tell my friends I’ll be down soon? I just want to finish this.”
“Of course, my lady.” Beatrice left the room, but Rouge took the chance to curl up at Violet’s feet rather than follow the maid. Victor’s dog was nowhere to be seen, but Violet guessed Gin was curled up with Victor, exulting in the fact that Victor was easily accessible. It was a feeling that Violet could identify with.
She scowled at her bedroom again, feeling as though it were a concrete example of their eventual separation, then went back to work. She wouldn’t think on that now, even though she realized the house was nice—she hated it. She had been hoping that it would be terrible, and Victor would sell it and accept a loss.
Enough of that, Violet ordered herself. She added the next name that occurred to her to her journal.
MELODY BAKER — Jones’s lover. Would she have killed him? Perhaps he was threatening her? Maybe she was trying to hide her affair from her husband and couldn’t count on Jones’s discretion?
Violet shut the journal. She wasn’t sure who she’d seen in the street with Mr. Jones, but the woman had seemed all too familiar with him. Violet wasn’t sure who else might want to kill him. She didn’t know enough about the man to be able to easily identify all his potential enemies. Perhaps, however, Violet thought, she had an idea of who might know those things.
She crossed to her wardrobe and pulled out her coat. She laid it over the back of her bed and put on her sensible shoes. This was a conservative little village, so Violet left off the heavier makeup this time. She wanted the locals to work with her, not shun her.
Violet paused at her face and dabbed light powder over her freckles. She lightly blackened her lashes and put on a light colored lipstick that was a shade darker than her own lips. She still looked conservative but felt better about her overall appearance.
While Violet was waiting, she removed the bangle she’d put on that morning but added a ring to play with. It looked warm outside but wet. She knew too well how the wet could get into your bones, so she grabbed a scarf in case her ramble left her too cold.
Just as she was ready to go, Beatrice returned with the tea and toast. Violet picked up her toast as the maid started to straighten Violet’s bedroom.
“I’m going for a walk, darling. Would you please check on my brother? And bring me the dogs and leashes. I’ll take them with me.”
Beatrice nodded and started to get Rouge ready while Violet ate and then peeked in on Victor and found him snoring. He was so loud, she knew he’d
have a sore throat when he woke. She crossed to him and shoved on his shoulder until he rolled onto his side and his snoring stopped.
Violet found Victor’s dog lying at the end of his bed and clucked to him. Gin looked at Violet and refused to move.
“Come on, boy,” she told him.
He looked at her as if she were stupid and snuggled closer to Victor’s legs.
“Come on now,” she snapped.
He harrumphed and closed his eyes.
Violet stared at the dog and then grabbed his collar, pulling him out of the room.
“You,” she told the creature, “are as spoiled and stubborn as your master.”
He whined and dragged his feet, attempting to sit down, but Violet was not going to be beaten by a dog she could carry with one hand. Gin and Rouge only got exercise because the twins had servants who helped with the dogs, but Violet needed the dogs as an excuse to nose her way through the town. The dogs would be her disguise.
Violet took the leash from Beatrice, put it on Gin’s collar and took Rouge’s leash in her other hand. She hurried down the servant’s staircase to the back door of the house. She wanted to slip away before her friends caught her. They were casual enough with each other that they’d entertain themselves without either Victor or Violet being present, so she didn’t feel too bad about leaving them behind.
She wouldn’t, however, put it past Jack to have told Kate and Denny to keep an eye on Violet. In fact, Violet admitted, she was betting he’d done just that. Lila, at least, could be counted on to laugh at Jack, solemnly swear to do his bidding, then determinedly forget his instructions.
Violet turned the collar up on her coat and started down the drive. The walk into the main part of the village wasn’t so far she needed to take an auto. She had made it about halfway down the drive when Kate came running up behind her.
“Vi!”
Turning slowly, Violet examined the woman. “Jack?”
“I had to cross my finger over my heart when I promised to keep you out of trouble.”
“Impossible!” Violet declared merrily, accepting her companion with a grin.
“Just what I said. Apparently Jack can tell when I lie to him. He made me promise, therefore, to not leave you alone to your shenanigans. He said and I quote, ‘Fine then. I won’t try to box in our Vi. Perhaps you’d just keep her company?’”
Violet grinned and winked at Kate. “Ready for trouble then?”
“Lead on, O Captain! My Captain!”
Vi tucked her arm through the crook of Kate’s elbow and handed over Gin’s leash as they hurried down the drive together. The dogs had stopped fighting the adventure, and Violet’s mind was racing ahead to the people she hoped to find and the discussions she hoped to have.
Chapter 12
“What do you think of the house?” Kate watched a bird in the distance before glancing at Violet.
“It’s better than I thought it would be.” Violet’s laugh was rather wooden and she could feel the weight of Kate’s gaze searching her carefully averted face.
Violet didn’t want to admit she felt it was too far from Jack’s country home, so she avoided Kate’s gaze. It felt ridiculously presumptive to declare that the house was despised simply because its location was too far from a man who hadn’t proposed, hadn’t said he loved her, and hadn’t made any promises.
She’d felt certain before that Jack loved her, and perhaps if she were honest, she still thought he did. Yet, he had said nothing. Did all women feel so shaky in their romances or was it only Violet?
What was Kate thinking? Violet hoped that Kate knew of Victor’s affections. Both knew of them and knew that she should let him down gently if she didn’t return them. But no, of course Kate loved Victor. Otherwise she’d have returned home to the life she had overtly told them she liked.
“It really is quite beautiful here,” Violet said to change the subject. “I find I am missing the blue skies and warmth of Cuba, but there is something about home.”
“I’d miss the rain if I lived somewhere so magical as Cuba.” Kate sounded almost as if she were in a confessional. “I enjoy our weather. I know that many prefer to escape the greyness of England but not I.”
“Do you not want to travel further?”
“Oh, I do.” Kate smiled at Violet. “I just want to come home in between.”
The wind picked up and sent Violet’s short bob flying around her head. They were in the village main, and she was sure their progress was being tracked.
“The dogs were a clever ploy.” Kate’s attention was caught by a woman who had started out by frowning at them, then paused on the sight of the dogs. How could they be scandalous Londoners when they were simply two young women walking a set of small spaniels?
“I think we should temporarily rename the dogs Muffin and Rex.” Violet smiled brightly at a couple of children and crossed to them. “Hello, my little darlings. Isn’t it a fine day?”
One of the grubby-faced little girls squeaked, tossed her braids over her head and went pelting away.
“Well now.” Kate put her hands on her hips. “What an odd greeting.” She grinned and winked at the remaining children while Violet eyed the group.
She looked for a mischievous gaze, found one, and met it in open challenge. The scamp was just what she needed. He looked as though he had a frog in his pockets with that twinkle in his eyes. He was a ginger with freckles and a few pieces of hair that stuck straight up. She bet his mother bemoaned those hairs. He was wearing clothes that been cleaned and pressed at one point, but the dirt on his face said he’d been up to mischief already.
“Hello there,” Vi said to the mischievous one. “You look a likely lad.”
“Likely enough,” he declared with a half-smirk. The challenge remained in his gaze and when Violet lifted a brow at him, he echoed her movement. She couldn’t help but grin at that.
She held out her hand, and he shook it. She suspected if she stayed here very much, she’d become fast friends with this little man. “Do you know Mrs. King?”
“Mebbe.”
Kate snorted, choking back a laugh.
“I’m guessing that answer is dependent upon a sixpence?” Violet mused.
The boy’s eyes widened and he nodded frantically. “Yes, mum.”
“Lead the way, my lad.”
The boy darted ahead, skipping forward and then bouncing on his toes as he waited for Kate and Violet to catch up.
“Looking for local gossip?” Kate asked as they followed the lad.
Violet glanced sideways at Kate and explained her reasoning. “Mrs. King caught us in a train station, while I was clearly ill, and still took her chance to find out what she could about us. I’d eat my cloche if I thought she hadn’t shared it at her next knitting circle or ladies’ meeting. If any woman is going to know the dirty details of Philip Jones’s life and tell us, it is Agnes King.”
“Or his wife,” Kate suggested.
Violet glanced back before nodding. “I’m saving her for later. I don’t want to arrive too early to visit her. But, regardless of her answers, she needs help from Victor, I think.”
Kate paused. Not because she disagreed, but because many an employer who had just hired someone wouldn’t be stepping in to help the family. Philip Jones may have worked in the garden of Higgins House for quite some time, but Victor had only owned it for a short while.
When you added in that Jones had been late from the first day, the reason why they hadn’t been able to hire local servants, and caught having an assignation during work hours—it was a sheer act of pure charity to help his wife out.
And yet, Victor and Violet had been raised by a woman who was both generous and practical. Getting someone on their feet was something Aunt Agatha would do. She might expect whomever she helped to stand on their own after that, but she would have given them a hand up. Violet would never do anything less than what she thought her aunt would have them do.
The walk to Agnes King’s h
ome wasn’t too long even though the child kept trying to hurry them.
“In a race for your sixpence?” she asked.
The boy held out a grubby palm, and Violet put the coin in his hand, looking to Mrs. King’s house. It was a respectable house but nothing that proclaimed wealth—a respectable cottage with a lovely garden. Violet’s favorite part of it was the two brick pillars that framed the path that led to the front door. The pillars were topped with stone statues of house cats. The irony in the stonework made Violet chuckle.
Mrs. King had a bench under an oak tree, and she was sitting on it.
“What’s all this?”
“We’re invading you,” Violet said. “We’ve been walking the dogs and taking in the sights and wondered if you could give me some advice.”
“Advice?” Mrs. King sounded skeptical, and she should. Violet didn’t need advice, she was simply using the chance to ask about helping Mrs. Jones as an avenue to get the local gossip. Regardless of what Mrs. King said, Violet was going to do what she could for the widow.
“Well, I fear it’s a rather delicate matter.” Violet glanced around and Mrs. King stood, taking a chair from near her door and crossing back to the bench.
“Perhaps I can offer you some tea?”
“That would be lovely.” Kate smiled winningly. “What are these purple flowers called?”
Violet listened to Kate chat with Mrs. King while she rang the bell for her servant to request a tea tray. Kate smoothly inquired after Mrs. King’s family, discovering her children were grown and she had three grandchildren. While they talked, Violet pasted an attentive expression on her face even though she wasn’t paying much attention.
When the tea arrived, Mrs. King poured them all a cup. Once they were leaning back with their tea, Violet said, “I’m sure you’ve heard of the unfortunate loss of Mr. Philip Jones?”
“I heard of his murder,” Mrs. King replied. “I’ve also heard that one of your friends is involved in the investigation. To be honest, I’d have thought that a couple of earl’s children wouldn’t be larking about with bobbies even if your friend is a chief inspector or whatever such nonsense they use to refer to him.”