Ashes of Roses

by Melissa R. L. Simonin

  “Have you contacted the authorities?” Miles questioned.

  “Yes, indeed,” Sir Edmund answered, and a look of chagrin covered his face. “First last night, and now this—it certainly isn’t the impression we were hoping to make! I assure you, this is not typical!”

  “I’m sure it isn’t,” I replied, because he was telling the truth. And I felt kind of sorry for him.

  “We slept through the storm last night,” Miles said. “If you didn’t mention it earlier, we’d have no idea there was one. How bad was it?”

  “It thundered something fierce,” Sir Edmund recalled. “There was a good deal of rain, and more wind than we ordinarily are subjected to, here at the manor.”

  “A strange night for this guy to be out in the garden,” I remarked. “When did the storm begin?”

  Sir Edmund struggled to forget the dead guy lying there in front of him, long enough to remember.

  “Midnight, or roundabouts,” he replied, with a glance at Solemn Guy, who concurred with a nod. “I believe that’s when the thunder began. The rain came after.”

  “How hard, and for how long?” I wondered.

  “Buckets, I should say. I’ve no idea when it ended,” Sir Edmund answered. Miles and I looked to Solemn Guy, and he cleared his throat again. His color was slowly beginning to return.

  “It thundered right hard ‘til ‘round three, an the rain slacked a bit by four. It naught but sprinkled after, ‘til about six. I worked the late night shift, so was awake during the whole of it.”

  “Did you hear anything besides the storm?” I asked, and immediately regretted it.

  “No, mum.”

  I resigned myself to the ensuing onslaught of every clock chime, creak, tick, and sound heard by Solemn Guy during the night. I hurried past it, and back to the present.

  “Whatever could have happened to the man?” Sir Edmund worried.

  “The quality of any evidence left behind depends upon how recently he died,” Miles commented, as he studied the sodden clothing worn by the deceased.

  “Evidence?” Sir Edmund paled.

  “We can hope,” I said speculatively, as I eyed the dark stone under the man’s head, and tried to gauge the amount of blood surrounding it. The fog didn’t improve that endeavor, but it appeared that much of it was watered down, and washed away. Not that the investigators would need it, but if that was gone, then other evidence…

  “Y-you believe it possible someone did this?” Sir Edmund’s eyes bugged out. “Y-you surely don’t suspect he was killed!”

  “Well… he is dead,” I pointed out.

  “The intruder exited through a window on this side of the house,” Miles remarked. “Unless the officers skipped this route on their way to search the outside, which is unlikely, he wasn’t here then. That would be about nine o’ clock, I believe.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Sir Edmund confirmed.

  “Then he came to the garden sometime afterward,” Miles said. “If the man’s not an employee, what purpose could he have? This isn’t public property, nor is it lit for a late night stroll. Was he meeting someone? And again, for what purpose? Once we know the man’s identity, we’ll be better able to begin filling in those blanks.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re quite used to this sort of thing,” Sir Edmund said, almost in relief. “What with your slew of detectives, and all, and the peculiar situations in which you’ve found yourselves. I dare say—”

  Footsteps rapidly drew closer, and another solemn guy and two officers, one of them the man in charge from the night before, appeared from out of the mist.

  “Oy there, now,” I think the officer said. His wide eyes were locked on the legs stretched across the path. He looked as though he never saw a homicide before. Considering the size of the Isle of Camden, it was entirely possible he had not. “Wha’ ‘ave we ‘ere?”

  The rest, I couldn’t piece together if my life depended on it. I was thankful that once again, Miles could.

  “My wife and I observed what you see here, shortly before Sir Edmund placed the call to your department. The man is deceased, and his identity currently unknown. Other than checking for a pulse, the body is undisturbed,” Miles reported. “You’ll want to process the scene as a homicide, and treat this as such, unless and until an autopsy determines otherwise.”

  “Do whatever he says,” Sir Edmund promptly chimed in. “My cousin has simply dozens of detectives working for him, and loads of experience. He’ll know just how to go about it.”

  The officer in charge seemed glad of the insight. It was more suspicious, as deaths go, than any other encountered by the department in all his years of service. He must have said otherwise, because that’s what I heard.

  Though he didn’t openly admit that, he did welcome Miles’ suggestions. He welcomed Jackson’s too, because that’s who Miles called for assistance. It’s not like we personally handled anything like this before, either!

  What the officers lacked in hands-on experience, they did make up for in training. That began to kick in, once the shock of facing a possible homicide wore off.

  Before long, the area was cordoned off, labels placed, and photos were taken. An officer then carefully searched the man’s jacket pockets, and found a set of keys and a wallet. According to the UK driving licence it contained, the name of the deceased was Gerald Abernathy. An English address was listed.

  The officers, and there were several now, were doing just fine on their own. We stood off to one side, close enough if our presence was requested, yet far enough to be out of the way.

  “As he isn’t local, the ferry will have a record of his passage,” Miles remarked quietly, as he watched me tap the name Gerald Abernathy, England, into my phone’s search engine. “The keys that were in his pocket include those of a motor vehicle. It’s entirely possible he parked somewhere on the estate. Did you find something?”

  “Yes,” I replied, as I scrolled through the list of results. I chose one of the links, and a business logo appeared, along with a group photo. “That’s him. He restores—or, did restore—historic buildings.”

  “We know he was inside this one, the day we arrived,” Miles mused.

  “And left in a huff,” I remarked. “He had business with someone here. Either that, or he wanted to.”

  “Edmund,” Miles said loudly enough for him to hear, and he joined us. “As house manager, is Ashley responsible for hiring contractors for restoration and repairs to the manor?”

  “Ash recommends improvements and repairs, but it’s Mother who manages the hiring,” Sir Edmund answered.

  “Was Historic Restoration ever contracted to handle a project, here?” Miles asked.

  Sir Edmund’s eyebrows knit.

  “The name’s a bit familiar, but whether that’s due to its descriptive nature, or an actual encounter with the business, I can’t recall.”

  Sir Edmund was called away by one of the officers, so I turned back to Miles.

  “Gerald Abernathy was the owner.”

  “Perhaps his company was responsible for the work being done that resulted in the room changes,” Miles said.

  “That’s a reasonable deduction,” I replied. “Maybe Lady Carlisle chewed him out, so he was mad. Then he returned the next night, and was killed in the garden, in the dark, with a rock. That part, I can’t make sense of.”

  “We’re missing some crucial pieces to this puzzle,” Miles remarked. “I suggest we look up Lady Carlisle before the day is done. I also wouldn’t mind checking out the area under renovation, in addition to finding out what Marge can tell us.”

  “I approve of that plan,” I said. “After we go to the greenhouse, and lend our support to Finn.”

  “They’re wrapping up here,” Miles commented. As he spoke, the body was placed on a gurney, and wheeled away. The officers gathered up their equipment, and prepared to follow. Miles and I continued down the path, pausing beside Edmund and the officer in charge. “If we’re not needed, Anika and I
will get back to surveying the damage to the greenhouse.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sir Edmund quickly replied. “I shall be there shortly.”

  The officer in charge shook hands with Miles, said something I couldn’t possibly interpret, nodded to me, then we left the scene of the crime behind.

  The sun fought valiantly against the clouds, and with the assistance of the high wind, its rays escaped and worked steadily away at the fog. As the mist began to evaporate, revealing more of the garden around us, the fickle wind had a change of heart. The growing patches of blue sky grew fewer and further between, and the sun was again obscured as a new wave of dark clouds rolled in. The colors of the garden around us grew vivid and the details more distinct, and what shadows there were, appeared nearly indiscernible. It was beautiful, but the clouds held a threat within their billowing masses, and concern for Finn and his hard earned hybrids dominated my thoughts.

  On the other side of an ivory, bud covered trellis and the roses that surrounded it, the top of the greenhouse appeared. From our vantage point, all looked as it should, but a few more steps to the left revealed a jagged section, where a glass wall once stood.

  “It isn’t the roof, anyway,” I said optimistically.

  “Don’t be too sure of that,” Miles cautioned, as we continued down the same meandering path we traveled just the day before. It looped around, and I groaned at the sight of the large fragment of missing roof now visible at the opposite end of the building.

  “What on earth could have caused this?” I asked in confusion, as I looked around at the garden, which showed no such signs of devastation.

  “I wonder. Finn, are you here?” Miles called out. “It’s Miles and Anika. We’re here to help, if we can.”

  There was no response.

  We bypassed another gaping hole in the wall, as we followed along the side of the greenhouse, on our way to the door. I strained to see past the shrubs for a glimpse of the inside, but what I saw wasn’t encouraging.

  “Maybe he’s taken the roses to one of the other greenhouses,” Miles suggested, and the thought brought relief with it.

  “That makes complete sense,” I agreed.

  But the damage to the interior, did not. While there were no plants, pots lay in scattered fragments around the overturned tables and shelves. Empty bags of soil, fertilizer, and bottles of fungicide littered the once clean floor, their haphazardly strewn contents dissolving in the puddles of rainwater that covered it.

  “Someone did this,” I said in dismay, as Miles cautiously led the way through the open door, and around an overturned rake.

  “It was no act of nature,” Miles acknowledged. “Stay right beside me, so I know where you are.”

  I nodded, and held tightly to his arm. I much preferred the protection of his force field over wandering around on my own, and soaking my suede boots in the toxic mix that covered much of the floor. As we walked through the shattered greenhouse so filled with life, creativity, and beauty just a few short hours before, my dismay grew.

  “I don’t believe Finn’s been here this morning,” Miles remarked. “The rain stopped around six, and there are no footprints.”

  “Those left before, were washed away,” I lamented. “Whoever did this, probably broke the glass at least partly to cover their tracks.”

  “You may be right,” Miles said. “If it was polycarbonate, that would’ve been next to impossible.”

  “What, you mean bulletproof glass?”

  “Something like that. The greenhouse has been here at least as long as Finn, so quite probably before its introduction as a glass substitute.”

  “It was here in 1901, when James and Katharine were,” I remembered. “I saw a glimpse of the greenhouses in the distance, as they walked in the garden.”

  “Then the glass was maintained over the years, rather than replaced by a more durable material,” Miles concluded. “It was still no easy feat to break the roof. If I had to guess, I’d say they threw this pot at it…”

  Miles turned abruptly, blocking my view. Judging by that and the look on his face, there was something he didn’t want me to see.

  “What?” I asked apprehensively, as the strong smell of iron mixed with the rest of the scents.

  “It’s not Finn,” Miles quickly replied, as I gripped his arm tightly with one hand, and his coat sleeve with the other. “At least… he’s not here.”

  “What does that mean?” I questioned in alarm. The air circulator switched on, and my stomach turned as the scent of iron grew stronger.

  “It’s no one, there’s no body,” Miles said, as he moved us to the side, and out of the steady stream of nausea inducing air.

  “But there was,” I steeled myself, and ordered my hands to stop shaking. “It’s okay, I can take it. I’ve seen way worse truths than this. Since there’s no body.”

  “Yes, but those lock away when their usefulness is past,” Miles reminded me. “This won’t.”

  “It won’t for you, either,” I reasoned. “Besides, there’s no body.”

  “Alright… Fine,” he conceded. “There’s a lot of blood, though.”

  “I gathered that,” I said, as I gripped my coat sleeve in my hand, and pressed it against my nose. “Hurry, we’ve got to get as much information as we can, while we have the chance. This is our job.”

  “Alright,” Miles said in acceptance.

  He turned, and we moved forward semi-cautiously. It’s not like we had a lot of time before we’d need to contact the authorities, unless we cared to explain why it took us so long, and we knew there was no risk of our contaminating the crime scene. Still, we weren’t seasoned enough at this sort of thing to rush through it, as though it was all in a day’s work. This really was not the angle we were used to.

  There on the floor, blood pooled thickly. If not for the heavily saturated bolt of insulating material, and the shelter provided by the blood splattered, overturned table, more of it would be diluted by the rain that poured through the open wall, and the hole in the ceiling.

  “The heating unit,” Miles nodded.

  I stared grimly at the evenly spaced punctures in the circulator’s metal housing. A few fragments of dark, bloodied fiber were visible.

  “It’s not the only one that was stabbed,” I acknowledged, as fresh concern flooded me. “Did the victim survive? Whoever it was, they’re not here, and… we don’t know that it wasn’t Finn.”

  “Let’s get done, and go check in on him,” Miles replied. “He probably lives on the grounds.”

  “Oh my goodness, I hope so,” I said fervently.

  We rounded the table, and Miles stopped to look inside the refrigerator. It was empty.

  “Look,” I pointed at the floor. In a rare section untainted by the soil, fertilizer, and fungicide mix, dark streaks were visible. “Living or otherwise, the body was dragged through here.”

  “And here,” Miles indicated. A closer inspection revealed a smear of blood was also present on the doorframe. Beyond that, there was no immediate indicator to tell us which direction the body was taken, and we were out of time. Miles removed his phone from his pocket.

  “Edmund, it’s Miles. Are the officers still there? Good, because what Anika and I found, is another crime scene. Either the victim was stabbed here, then transferred to your location, or there’s a second body, and it’s missing. No, I’m not joking. Does Finn live on the premises? We’re concerned, and would like to check on him. Good. Where? Alright. I’ll let you know what we find.”

  Chapter 12

  The dark clouds glowed with light, as we hurried along the path leading to the gardener’s cottage. There was no rumble of thunder just yet, but the frequent flashes promised that could soon change.

  A swift glance as we passed the intact walls of the remaining greenhouses revealed a variety of flowers in one, and vegetables and herbs in the other. There were no young hybrid roses sharing the space inside either.

  Rather than comment, Miles and I incre
ased our pace.

  Up ahead, a group of large trees overshadowed a small cut stone house, about the size of our own caretaker’s cottage. The sloping roof was moss covered, and the walls hung with ivy, making it appear as natural as its surroundings. A few flowers bloomed at the base of the trees and around the house itself, but not in the profusion found elsewhere.

  Two narrow windows bordered the door, and the broad step that led to it. Much as I wanted to peer inside, Finn might be home. I really, really hoped he was, so I laced my fingers together as I prayed, and Miles knocked.

  There was no answer. There was no sound at all. The birds were silent, and the air still. Not even the rustle of a leaf marred the absolute quiet.

  Miles knocked more forcefully.

  “Finn! It’s Miles and Anika. We’re concerned about you. If you don’t answer in the next five seconds, we’re coming in.”

  Five, four, three, two…

  Miles turned the knob.

  “It’s unlocked,” he said, as he pushed the door open.

  I wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign, or a bad one. Rather than decide, I followed after Miles.

  Shadowed by the thickly interlaced branches of the trees, the windows had little access to light, on an ordinary day. With the sun obscured by the darkening clouds, even the open door did little to reveal what was inside.

  “Finn?” Miles called again. It seemed obligatory, despite knowing as well as I did that if the gardener was there, and able to answer, he would have.

  Miles paused for a moment, and activated his phone’s flashlight app. That was an excellent idea, so I did the same. As we panned the beams of light around the small one-room space, it was easy to see no one was there, or in the tiny attached bathroom. But someone had been.

  The entire space was in disarray. The single cabinet in the minuscule kitchen, stood open. A few dishes remained inside, while others were scattered on the counter, and in the sink. The scent of coffee came from the grounds spilling out of the overturned canister on the floor. The cushions of the small sofa bed were tossed to one side, and the mattress and sheets were askew. The drawers of the small dresser were in various stages of open and closed, and a few articles of clothing overflowed. More were strewn about the floor. The bathroom was in a similar state of disarray. Toothpowder, a toothbrush, a shaving razor, and other items spilled out of the open medicine cabinet, and into the sink. There was no closet, and no space where one could be hidden.