The Violet Carlyle Mysteries Boxset 2

by Beth Byers

  He stepped back. “Mrs. Baker.” He looked at Vi. “I need a moment.”

  Melody smirked at Violet, probably thinking Vi was in trouble. To an extent, she was. But then again—whether he’d said it or not, that tightness about his mouth was because he cared about her safety.

  “Vi…”

  “Just us girls trading barbs,” Violet told Jack, lightly placing her hand on his arm. He shot Victor a look and then pulled Violet to the lane outside of Mrs. Baker’s house where they could talk without being heard.

  “Violet, whoever killed Jones was a strong and vital individual, or a very sneaky one—or both. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “It won’t.”

  “The image of you hurt and broken after the last time—I don’t need to see that ever again.”

  “Jack…”

  “Violet.” He cupped her face, blocking her from Melody Baker’s view. “I love you.”

  Her mouth dropped open in utter shock. Of all places…

  Her gaze searched his, and she realized it wasn’t a willing confession, it was a statement that had been ripped from him.

  “I won’t lose you. I can’t lose you. You must be safe.” Each statement was a declaration to the universe. Both a prayer and a vow.

  Violet cupped his cheek back, stepping a little nearer to him. “I won’t pretend that nothing can ever happen. You and I both know too well that would be a fallacy. I will, however, promise you—if you promise me—that I will be as safe as I know how to be.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “I suppose that locking you in the bedroom is out of the question.”

  Violet smirked, not bothering to answer.

  “I want to go home,” she told him. “Let’s end this.” He nodded and she added, “Melody Baker has an alibi, but she was definitely having an affair with Jones. As much as I don’t like her, I don’t believe she killed him.”

  “Her husband?”

  “She says they both took the train to visit her mother.”

  “I’ll have one of the local boys double check.”

  Vi lifted a brow at him in a hint, and Jack scowled at her. Begrudgingly he said, “Father Bosch was unaware of his daughter’s situation. Both of them, however, have an alibi. They were working with the choir. A good twenty people were aware of their location and could testify to it.”

  She told him of the box of letters and about Chloe Sandford.

  He shook his head before Violet had even finished explaining, “She was one of the choir members. The soprano. The vicar particularly mentioned her as one they were working with specifically. And, of course, you found letters. Funny, isn’t it? How you found them after I left?”

  Violet laughed, rubbing her thumb over his hand and then leaned into his space, speaking quietly. “Melody Baker inferred that Mrs. Jones may have a lover. A Thomas Brown. Perhaps if Jones beat his wife, Thomas Brown could no longer stand idly by?”

  Jack’s gaze narrowed. “There are too many people with motives for this case. By Jove! It could have been any of them. The only question is, why now?”

  Violet shook her head and admitted, “I could see the lover killing an abusing husband more than anything else. Don’t you think?”

  “You leave him to me, Violet. Go back to Victor’s house. Have tea with your friends, roller-skate in the ballroom. Lila told me she brought the roller-skates while you were ill.”

  Violet smiled at him. “We’ll go check on Mrs. Jones. We have some things for her.”

  He considered for a long minute, glancing at Victor, before he simply said, “Be safe.”

  “And you.”

  Chapter 20

  “Where did this auto come from?” Violet scowled at the vehicle and kicked the tires. Victor stared down at the engine as though he might know how to fix it. Violet knew her brother too well for that. She had no faith in his capacity to fix anything other than a cocktail.

  “I am paying for its use,” Victor told Vi imperiously. “I am not responsible for its state.”

  Her laughter had him shooting her a nasty look. She opened the trunk to take the things for Mrs. Jones.

  “I am not going to linger while you pretend to fix things. You are a darling brother. I love many things about you. Those things do not include basic mechanical work.”

  His look was even blacker, but Violet pretended to not see it. “Perhaps go and find someone to deal with this beast?” She winked merrily at him and saluted to head towards Mrs. Jones.

  “I’ll be after you once I get the auto sorted.”

  “Delightful! I will see you later, dear brother.”

  Vi adjusted the large basket in her grip. It had a ham, jellies, tarts, and other pleasantries that might be difficult for her to acquire for herself. It also had an empty journal with a check tucked inside.

  More than most would pay, Violet thought, and yet somehow not enough.

  Violet had learned how to traverse the village well enough to be able to take a shortcut through a field towards the small lane where a row of economical cottages were lined up under the trees.

  About halfway across the field, she heard, “My lady! Lady Violet?”

  Violet turned and saw Mr. Freckleton striding towards her. “Hullo, there.” Her cheery voice carried over the field, and he grinned at her.

  “Hello there. How pleasant to run into you again. I have been quite concerned over you since I heard that you…well…”

  “Well…” Violet glanced behind her to avoid the conversation about what she’d seen. She did not want to discuss the dead body and its effect on her.

  “Was he yet alive when you found him?”

  Violet blinked and then shook her head. Surely, Mr. Freckleton knew better than to ask her such a thing.

  “It’s better that way,” Mr. Freckleton told her. “You wouldn’t want to carry his last words with you. Let alone knowledge of who had killed him. That fiend would be a dangerous person to know too much about. May I help you with that?”

  Violet shuddered as she handed the basket to Mr. Freckleton. “I fear I wouldn’t have been happy to be the last confessor. Anything like that would colour my nightmares. Even if that confession might have ended the investigation into your brother-in-law’s death. I am not that…giving.”

  “It seems to be a difficult case to solve. I fear that the killer will go unknown.”

  “Never worry, Mr. Freckleton. Mr. Wakefield will solve the crime. He’s quite skilled. Sooner or later, he’ll find the knave, and all will be well.”

  “You sound so certain,” Mr. Freckleton said. “Pray it be so. I fear that his loss will be the final blow for my sister.”

  Violet didn’t get that feeling at all. If anything, people seemed to be a little relieved on Mrs. Jones’s behalf. Though no one wanted to say, ‘Thank goodness, he’s dead,’ Violet was convinced that they were all thinking it.

  Violet wasn’t going to argue with the lie that Philip Jones was a good man.

  “I feel like we’ve become friends,” Mr. Freckleton told Violet. His tone had her pausing for a second. Had they bonded over the graves of the children? Her with empathy and him with revealing his grief? Yes. Friends, however? That was reaching.

  She glanced at him, her expression freezing a little before she pointed across the field to a family of bunnies. “I hope to hear that your sister is doing better? When I stopped by on behalf of my brother, she seemed quite upset.”

  Mr. Freckleton cleared his throat. “Perhaps my statement about our friendship has made you somewhat uncomfortable. I don’t wish to be forward, but as your elder, as a man of the world, and a more experienced individual, I wonder if I might offer you a word of advice?”

  Violet’s rush of fury blinded her for a moment. Older? Yes. A man of the world? In this village? Her heart was rampaging with doubts. A man? Was that a compelling difference between them that allowed him to give her—a stranger—life advice? Because she was female? Violet did not believe that in the least.


  For the sake of peace, she smiled brightly, waiting for his unwanted comments. If she were a cat, her hair would have been standing on end.

  “Marrying below your class, my dear, causes trouble and shame for your family. I have heard that you are quite close to the London bobbie. Long-term happiness includes accepting…”

  Violet sniffed, trying to hide her reaction.

  “…even embracing that the way you were raised, and what you expect from your life cannot be delivered by some two-bit copper.”

  The rage she felt, it made that earlier rush of anger seem like nothing. Hearing Jack insulted after he’d finally told her he loved her, by Jove! She was having a hard time not boxing Mr. Freckleton’s ears.

  “I can see that I have bothered you.” Mr. Freckleton smiled condescendingly. “It’s difficult to hear the unfortunate truths. My sister has—had—spent most of her married life unhappy.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Violet started.

  Mr. Freckleton held up a hand to silence her, and Violet stopped in shock. “We will, of course, mourn poor Philip, it is better that she has no one—that this tragedy has come to its culmination. She could have been happy. If she’d been wise enough not to throw her life away.”

  Violet placed her hand on her chest as they entered the lane from the field. She was internally shocked and horrified that Freckleton felt as though the loss of the children was somehow anything other than tragic. “I’m startled.”

  “I shouldn’t have been so blunt in my opinions,” Mr. Freckleton stated. “I should have known better. I suppose that with what poor Meredith and I have been facing, with the loss of my brother-in-law, I have been looking back at the tragedy and wishing things could have been different. I thought maybe I could help you.”

  “Thank you for sharing your experience,” Violet told Mr. Freckleton. Her voice made clear the extent of her gratitude.

  “Ah…yes…I have offended you. Love makes us so blind.”

  “I wonder if you’ve met Mr. Wakefield?”

  “Do you think that I have never met a yard man before?”

  “I think that you haven’t met Jack Wakefield and you’ve made assumptions about him based upon the fact that he’s a brilliant investigator and tends to lend a hand when needed.”

  “Having a position at Scotland Yard is not lending a hand, my dear. This is one of those lies that men tell the women they’re trying to manipulate into marriage. I assure you, he has his gaze on whatever money you might have, your connections, and nothing more.”

  “Mr. Freckleton!” Violet’s half-hearted attempt at patience faded, and her fury was clear in her voice. “I am assured that you have not met Mr. Wakefield or realized that he is—in fact—of my own class. The question is not whether he is good enough for me, but why such a talented, well-connected man respected not only for his family but for his skills would bother with a frivolous good-for-nothing like myself. I can assure you, my good man, that Jack Wakefield will be the one slumming should we marry.”

  Mr. Freckleton’s slight laugh told Violet that he was humoring her. Violet had no interest in hearing the rest of his nonsense.

  They’d reached the cottage and Mr. Freckleton opened the door and invited Violet inside. Before Violet could excuse herself, she saw Mrs. Jones stumble into the room. She froze as she stared at her brother. Violet froze as she stared at Mrs. Jones.

  She wasn’t wearing her veil, and Violet could see the split bottom lip, the large black eye, the crooked nose. Her face was swollen and looking at it made Violet’s own face hurt. Her heart, however, hurt when she saw the stark terror on Mrs. Jones’s face.

  “Oh my,” Violet said, crossing to her and gently wrapping an arm around her waist. “Let’s get you back to bed, darling. I can see that I have come just in time.”

  Mrs. Jones said nothing. Her gaze was fixed on her brother, but she let Violet help her to bed. She was silent except for little gasps as Violet helped her move through the house. It was really only a trio of rooms. The small front room, the small kitchen area, the small bedroom with a little center space that served the purpose of a hallway.

  “Mr. Freckleton,” Violet said merrily. “This is one of those moments for the girls. Perhaps you would be so kind as to make your sister a sandwich. I shall help her with her nightgown. Darling, do you need a new one?”

  Mrs. Jones was trembling and her expression told a tale that her words hadn’t. She nodded silently, her gaze jumping from Mr. Freckleton to Violet and back again.

  Things were coming together in Violet’s head. This man had just lectured Violet based off of his prejudice about Jack, using Mrs. Jones’s experience. Freckleton was so old-fashioned he felt free to tell a person he didn’t know that she should not marry based off of rumors. Violet hadn’t thought that he’d have killed Philip Jones. Except…except…except the divorce.

  The divorce! Violet hadn’t taken the scandal seriously. Victor had become notorious for making a drunk purchase. Everyone Violet had met had known about it. How would they treat a woman who used the new marriage act to leave her husband?

  Why had the beating happened? What if Mr. Freckleton had attempted to dissuade his sister from leaving Philip? What if she took the beating but refused to give in to him. What if…Violet’s heart was racing and she was trembling nearly as much as Mrs. Jones.

  Violet had actually thought ahead to put a nightgown and kimono in the basket of items for Mrs. Jones. Violet left the bedroom with Mrs. Jones sitting on the side of the bed while she darted into the small kitchen area to take the non-food items from Mr. Freckleton. She shot him a glance and noticed his fierce expression.

  Violet helped Mrs. Jones pull off the nightgown she was wearing. Her ribs were wrapped with cloth. Violet took in the bruises on her chest and side, the large bruise on a thigh that was the size of a man’s hand—she noted every mark and said nothing. Violet slipped the nightgown over the woman and followed with the kimono to provide some luxurious warmth. Then Violet had Mrs. Jones sit on the bed, putting up her feet while Violet brushed her hair for her.

  Before Mrs. Jones lay down, Violet handed her a washcloth to freshen up as well as she could. She’d have tried for chatter, but the painful squeaks from Mrs. Jones and the bruises left Violet struggling to not shriek at Freckleton and find a blunt instrument to teach him his own painful lesson.

  “There now,” Violet said, kindly. “A bit of tea and you’ll feel a little better. I find being fresh is the first step to feeling well.”

  Mrs. Jones had let out a silent stream of tears through the entire process, and Violet carefully gave the woman a gentle smile along with her handkerchief, helping her to lie down.

  “Be careful,” Mrs. Jones breathed. Her voice was so low that Violet had to think on what she’d heard before she understood what the woman had said.

  Violet smiled brightly and glanced back. The door was still closed, but Violet was guessing Mrs. Jones whispered for a reason. This was a tiny cottage with close quarters. Did it also have very thin walls? Vi gave the woman a careful nod.

  Keeping her voice bright and merry, she asked, “Are you hungry, dear? I fear I am a very poor domestic, but I believe I could make you some halfway drinkable tea.”

  Mrs. Jones shook her head, but Violet nodded, giving the woman a firm look. It wasn’t to force her to have unwanted food, it was to stall for time. Victor would come sooner or later, and they’d be far safer. Until then, it would be bright, merry stalling.

  “Dear one,” Violet told her, knowing Mr. Freckleton was listening. “I believe that you need your rest. Our bodies are amazing, aren’t they? I was nearly as bad as you around Christmas after quite a dramatic mishap. Now I’m back to myself. You just need time. Have hope, it gets better.”

  Violet found the strength to keep up a constant stream of chatter now that she couldn’t see the bruises as well. She opened the window, looking for anyone who could help, but all was empty in the garden Violet could see over the f
ence. Violet adjusted the blankets and folded an afghan. She was desperately trying to decide what to do.

  Did she dare leave Mrs. Jones with her murderous brother? Would he kill her if Violet made it clear that she was coming quickly back? Or did she stall until Victor arrived and somehow make him understand what they’d learned?

  Mr. Freckleton! Violet had seen him in the graveyard. He could have stabbed Jones and made his way easily to the graveyard. Just because she hadn’t seen where he’d come from didn’t mean he hadn’t stepped off the same trail she’d discovered the body on.

  What if he’d murdered Jones and then gone to the graveyard to lay flowers on the grave? Was that why he’d approached Violet? Did he want to be seen while Jones was possibly dying? Until he’d lectured her, Violet wouldn’t have thought that there was a reason for Freckleton to have killed his brother-in-law.

  At least not since the crime was committed so long after the death of the children. She supposed, however, that if he had realized that his sister was going to divorce her husband, that might be what pushed him. That additional scandal might be the last straw. Her feeling that he might be the killer was cementing into a certainty. How could he not be given Mrs. Jones’s fear?

  Mr. Freckleton was standing in the doorway when Violet glanced up, and she yelped. “Oh, Mr. Freckleton, I didn’t see you there.”

  She laughed, but she didn’t sell her humor. He watched far too carefully as she came to take the sandwich. He didn’t quite let go of the plate, making her pull a little, then smiled when she paled.

  He was playing with her. Like a cat with a mouse. Violet brought the sandwich to Mrs. Jones, who knew that they were in trouble. Violet started chattering as she told Mrs. Jones that she’d brought jellies and biscuits and started offering sweets.

  “Oh,” Violet said happily. “I did bring some of the early berries. Do excuse me, Mr. Freckleton. Let’s entice your sister to a little something, shall we? Did you see the chocolates? Perhaps you could help me find them?”