Thoreau uncrossed his legs and then recrossed them in the opposite direction before folding his hands together in his lap. “You mentioned Miss Musselwhite. That she was ill. Did she remain at Littlemote, as well?”
Opal nodded in sympathy. “Had a right nasty cold. Didn’t even come to breakfast.”
Then Miss Musselwhite might have heard something of Minnie’s movements and possibly those of her killer while the others were gone. At least, she might be able to tell us whether Minnie packed her things herself.
Thoreau seemed content with her evidence, for he turned to the other murder. “Now, Mr. Green.”
Her head bowed, as if frightened of what he would say next.
“I have read your statement, which I understand Inspector Titcomb pressed you on considerably.” The corners of his eyes tightened in disapproval. “I will not make you recount it again unless you wish to amend it.”
Her entire body seemed to exhale in relief. “Thank you,” she murmured with a trembling voice. So agonized was the tone, it made me want to do a particular violence to Inspector Titcomb.
“I merely have one question,” Thoreau stated calmly. “And do not tax yourself to remember it, but do you recall the clothing that the person you saw was wearing?”
She lifted a shaking hand to her forehead. “I don’t know. Gray maybe. Or beige.”
The last time we’d spoken with her, she’d told me and Sidney that she’d thought they were wearing black. But I didn’t think she was lying. Rather, I thought she’d been pressed so hard on the importance of that single fact that she was desperate to answer. Sadly, if she had noted such a thing, the truth was now lost in a haze of suggestion.
“And it was a man?”
“Y-yes?” she whispered uncertainly.
Thoreau offered her a gentle smile. “Thank you. You may go.” He nodded at his sergeant to assist her as she struggled to her feet and then staggered toward the door.
I didn’t voice my suspicions regarding Titcomb’s interrogation of Opal, trusting Thoreau to handle it in his own way.
CHAPTER 23
Any comments on Opal’s testimony were suspended by the appearance of Miles in the open doorway. “Chief Inspector, there are two men from London asking for you.”
“Good, good,” he declared, rising to his feet to stride toward the door.
I deduced this would be his fingerprint expert and someone to analyze the prospective murder scene.
The butler’s gaze shifted to meet mine. “Madam, telephone call for you from Lord Ryde.”
At the proclamation of this name, Thoreau cast me a speculative look over his shoulder.
“Excellent.” I bustled across the room, eager to hear what was happening up in London. I trusted Sidney would follow me or not, as he wished.
Miles led me to an alcove just off the great hall where a telephone had been installed. It wasn’t precisely the most private of locations, but it would do.
“Max, darling. What news?”
“George cracked the code, and as we suspected, it was another riddle.”
I gripped the earpiece tighter. “Was?”
He chuckled. “Turns out your friend George is handy in more ways than one. He’s got a friend who’s a Roman scholar.”
This did not surprise me given the fact George had been a mathematics professor before Naval Intelligence had plucked him out to work for their codebreaking department. I suspected this Roman scholar was a member of a university’s faculty.
“They puzzled it out together, and they feel certain the code is directing us to Pevensey Castle.”
My spine straightened. “Isn’t that another of the Saxon shore forts?”
“Indeed. In eastern Sussex.”
“It’s not far from our cottage, actually,” I remarked absently while my brain was busily pondering the ramifications.
“Is it?”
“I’ve been there. It’s not always easy to distinguish the Roman remains from the later Norman and medieval work.” I worried my lower lip with my teeth for a moment. “The site is relatively deserted.” The perfect place for Scott and the rest of Ardmore’s men who were in league with him, be it at Ardmore or Scott’s behest, to strike at us again.
I wondered why the late earl had picked Pevensey, or Burgh Castle, for that matter. Yes, they were Saxon shore forts, but the Brading villa had not been. Was the only connection between them the RAF airfields positioned nearby? For RAF Eastbourne was relatively close to Pevensey, as was RAF Polegate, an airship station for anti-submarine patrols.
“I’ve been there as well,” Max replied. “Father helped finance an excavation at Pevensey about a decade ago.”
Then perhaps that helped explain why Ryde had chosen it.
“But you’d never been to Burgh Castle?”
“No, I’d never even set foot in Norfolk. Except for a house party I attended once near Mundford,” he amended. “But that’s on the other side of the county.”
I tilted my head, contemplating the portrait of one of the Pophams’ dour ancestors hanging on the wall opposite, their mouths bracketed and their eyes filled with sour disapproval. Gazing at it provoked the urge to stick my tongue out at it like a child. Or to behave in a manner that would give the ancestor something to actually disapprove of. Perhaps it was lucky Sidney hadn’t joined me in the great hall.
I still didn’t understand precisely what connected all of these sites, or how Ardmore had anticipated them. I had my hunches, but I was looking for confirmation. Otherwise, we were just darting across the country, chasing a series of vague clues, and stumbling into precarious situations. Scott had already proven himself to be volatile and willing to take risks. I didn’t trust that the next attack wouldn’t be so reckless that it was beyond us to thwart or control it.
“Verity, are you still there?” Max asked after I’d allowed the silence to stretch too long.
“Yes, I’m here.” I offered Miss Musselwhite a tight smile as she bustled by, carrying a freshly pressed garment.
“What do you think we should do? Should Xavier and I head down there?”
“Have you had any leads on working out Lord Ryde’s schedule during those last few weeks?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the maid break stride, her quick, sharp footsteps faltering. It was a subtle misstep, one that could easily have been attributed to a stumble, except for the fact that as she resumed her pace, she turned her head as if to look back at me before hurrying on.
“I’ve been sorting through everything we put into storage from Father’s office. His latest agenda is packed in one of the boxes. And I’ve also managed to track down his valet. I’ve arranged to speak with him in the morning.”
“Good,” I replied, having listened with only half an ear. “Then let’s wait until after you’ve spoken to him before we make any moves.”
“You’ve thought of something.” He sounded hopeful.
“Maybe,” I hedged, not wanting to give him false hope. “It’s too soon to say.” I frowned in the direction Miss Musselwhite had gone, wishing I knew exactly what that stumble had meant.
“All right. I’ve trusted you this far, Verity. I’ll trust you a little more.”
The warm regard that filled his voice pulled me back to attention, making my chest tighten with answering affection. I sank my head back against the wall, cradling the wooden candlestick mouthpiece closer to me. “Thank you, Max.”
I heard another voice in the background.
“Xavier wants to speak to you, so I’ll pass the telephone to him. But expect to hear from me tomorrow before midday.”
There was muffled movement and then a pause before Alec’s low drawl transmitted over the wires. “So that’s the way the wind blows if we could ever cut Kent out of the picture.”
I suppressed a huff of weary aggravation. I’d known it was only a matter of time before he deduced something by observing all of us together. “Why must you always stir the pot?”
“It’s not that I have
anything against the chap. He’s quite the upstanding fellow. But I would have thought he might be too upright for you.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” I snapped, knowing he was deliberately provoking me. He always had enjoyed sparring.
“Certainly not an insult to you. But you know how those old admirable types are. They bore one to tears after a while.”
I closed my eyes, refusing to debate with Alec the merits of Max’s ability to hold my attention, especially when he was bordering into purely fictitious territory. “Xavier.”
“Oh, ho. Back to my surname, is it? I must really be in trouble.”
There was a bite to this jest I had not anticipated, and I realized in some bizarre way I had hurt him. Though, what on earth I was supposed to do about it, I didn’t know. I was married to Sidney. I loved Sidney. I was not going to apologize for it, let alone contemplate or discuss who my second choice in a partner would be.
But all the same, I deliberately gentled my voice, allowing some of my worry to creep through. “Alec, have you seen any of Ardmore’s men lurking about?”
He didn’t respond at first, and I could only think I must have caught him off guard. When he did, the taunting tone had disappeared to be replaced with one of mutual concern. “No, I haven’t.”
“None?”
“None, and to be perfectly honest, I find that to be unsettling. For either the men who are watching us are better than the last crop, or . . .”
“Or?” I prodded when he didn’t continue.
“Or they’re not watching us.”
The implication was clear. Or they were watching me. Me and Sidney.
“Yes, I’d thought of that,” I admitted. “But we’re taking precautions. The Scotland Yard inspector who’s here is a friend. Of sorts,” I amended. “He’s an ally. So we’re not alone.” I exhaled a tight breath. “Anything on Willoughby yet?”
“No, but I should hear back from a colleague shortly. Actually, I should probably ring off in case he’s trying to telephone.”
“Then I’ll say goodbye. But, Alec . . .”
“Yes?”
Though there were hundreds of words I wanted to say, instead I settled on just five. “Be careful. All of you.” Whether he realized it or not, I’d placed as much trust in him as Max did me, for I was counting on him to keep Max and George safe. I wouldn’t have passed that responsibility on to just anyone.
“I will.”
Before I could analyze the tone and the slight catch in his voice, he’d hung up.
I set the telephone down and slowly made my way through the house to rejoin the others. But as I was passing the library, a voice called out, addressing me by name.
I smiled. “Reg, you amaze me.” I stopped to gaze at him across the large table, where he sat with a number of books stacked around him. “I was walking across carpet and you still realized it was me from the type of shoes I wear?”
His unseeing eyes lifted vaguely in my direction, and the corners of his lips lifted all too briefly. “More your tread. You have a rather light, slightly bounding way of walking. One I believe Mother would declare was a shade too boisterous for a genteel woman.”
I laughed. “Heavens! I feel like I’ve been psychoanalyzed by one of those Freudian fellows. And all by my manner of walking.”
“You can learn a lot about a person simply by listening to the way they move.” He nodded toward the door. “That Scotland Yard inspector, for instance. He was quite aggravated a few minutes ago when he strode past here.”
“Really?” I wondered what that meant about his initial findings in Minnie’s room.
Reg’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “It might explain why he insisted on pulling my valet away from me for questioning when I had need of him.”
I regarded the pages of the book currently open before the chair next to his. “Searching for information about Littlemote’s possible Roman villa?”
“And having a dashed time of it without the use of my eyes.” He gestured at the bookshelves covering three walls of the room around him. “We have thousands of books, but only three of them are in Braille. So instead I have to rely on others to read to me what I wish to know.”
He simmered with frustration, and I couldn’t blame him. Had I been in his shoes, I would have felt the same way. And yet I knew if I offered to remove the task from him, it would only make it worse. So instead, I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. “Tell me what you’ve uncovered so far.”
He blew out a breath. “Well, Mr. Plank, the stablemaster, told me about an excavation that he recalled his grandfather telling him about. One that had taken place in his grandfather’s grand father’s day.”
“So, what?” I quickly did the math. “The early eighteenth century?”
“As near as we could figure, yes. His grandfather claimed that a spectacular mosaic was uncovered, part of the remains of a Roman villa. That a replica of the mosaic was even embroidered on a tapestry. But for some reason the mosaic and the remains of the villa were reburied, and the exact location lost to time,” his voice snapped with renewed annoyance.
“It must have been to protect it,” I told him. “Mosaics that are exposed to the elements—sun, wind, rain, cold—crack, fade, and deteriorate.” I’d learned as much from seeing the mosaics under cover at Brading.
“Be that as it may, the fact that the site was lost is baffling to me. Wouldn’t a plow be just as destructive?”
“Of course, it would,” I remarked in a quelling voice. “And if this tale of Mr. Plank’s is true, then it seems inexcusable to me, as well. But surely he must have had some vague idea of the location.”
His teeth flashed in a toothy grin. “Why, haven’t you guessed, dear cousin? The west park.”
I could tell he’d enjoyed delivering that bit of news, though his aggravation still shone through.
He slapped the table. “Now, if I could just confirm it.”
I turned to glance at the charred section of rug in the far corner, courtesy of the airmen. I wondered why Mr. Plank hadn’t mentioned the Roman villa when I’d asked him if there was anything else noteworthy about the west park. Unless it had slipped his mind. After all, if the excavation had taken place some two hundred years ago, it was unlikely to be in his immediate thoughts. “What about the tapestry he mentioned?”
“I’ve asked Mr. Miles to try to locate it among the attics, but I haven’t much hope of finding it.”
I reached across the table to squeeze his hand. “Well, thank you, nonetheless. I know this may come to nothing, but it also might be the exact clue we’re looking for.”
“I don’t see it.” He tipped his head back, the lines at the edge of his mouth softening. “But maybe I’m not supposed to.”
I wished I could tell him more, but I couldn’t. I thought that might make him angry, but instead his entire face broke into a smile.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then. You are a puzzle, Ver. A good one.”
“Thank you, Reg.”
He waved off my gratitude. “Now, go on. Here comes Hatter.”
I turned toward the door, but it was several moments later before his bespectacled valet ambled into the room.
Reg’s smile remained at my incredulous silence.
“A cat, that’s what you are,” I pronounced.
He laughed. “I shall let you know when we uncover something.”
* * *
Much of the afternoon was spent in a series of long and tedious interviews with the various members of my aunt’s staff. As I squirmed in my seat for perhaps the tenth time, trying to find a comfortable position, I wondered at Thoreau’s whip-straight posture. Perhaps his chair happened to be better padded than this sagging sofa, but somehow I doubted it. Maybe learning to sit for hours in a lumpy chair had been part of his police training.
Sidney, on the other hand, had always had the remarkable ability of making himself comfortable anywhere. I imagined that had served him well during t
he war, and I was grateful for it. But just in that moment I couldn’t help casting an aggrieved scowl his way. At this look, he arched his eyebrows in query, but I turned away, shoving a threadbare pillow behind my back.
He leaned closer to murmur in my ear in a low voice as I was trying to listen to the chauffeur’s responses to the questions put to him. “I would offer to let you sit on my lap, but somehow I think that would be distracting to the others.”
I cast him a quelling look out of the corner of my eye, though it did nothing to wipe the arch smile lingering about his mouth. However, the chauffeur’s next words succeeded where I hadn’t.
“Aye, Mr. Green was verra interested in Mr. Kent’s arrival. Said he wished to speak wi’ him, but he left before he had the chance. And by the time he returned . . .” He shrugged. “It was too late.”
This was the first we’d heard of Mr. Green taking any interest in us. But why? Was it because of our celebrity and Sidney’s being placed on a pedestal as a war hero? Somehow I didn’t think that was right. Unless he was interested in Sidney’s status as a war hero for another reason.
Thoreau seemed to be mulling through these same implications. “Did he tell you why he wished to speak with him?”
The lean, tawny-haired driver shrugged again before answering in his Scottish brogue. “I dinna ken if there was a reason. Though he did seem particularly keen on it.” He fingered the brim of the cap resting in his lap, seeming to choose his words with care. “Mr. Green kept to himself. He wasna rude or unkind, he just dinna like to jabber. ’Cept sometimes to Mr. Plank.” He smiled reflexively. “But then he wasna doin’ much o’ the talkin’.”
I grinned in acknowledgment of the stablemaster’s garrulousness.
“Oh, and sometimes you’d see him speakin’ to his sister-in-law, Miss Musselwhite. But I gather that was family business.”
I’d wondered how close Miss Musselwhite was to Mr. Green. Given Mrs. Green’s worrying predilection to alcohol, as the chauffeur alluded to, it would have been a wonder if they hadn’t sought each other’s support in dealing with it.
“What of the other maids?” Thoreau slid the question in smoothly. “Did he ever interact with any of them?”
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