Loved From The Grave

by Maggie Carpenter

  "Settle in my dear. You're in for quite the tale."

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Smoking a cigarette and leaning against the side of his truck, George Peabody straightened up as he saw April Hammond enter the gift shop. A frown crossing his brow, he climbed into the cab, and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Pouring two cups of tea, Ruth set them on the table, then placing some shortbread biscuits on a plate, she carried them over and sat down opposite April.

  "Margaret Finch was my mother's rival for Foster's affection. Mind you, all the girls in the village were after Foster. Even when he was older he had women chasing him. He never married, but I'm sure you know that."

  "Yes. A confirmed bachelor. What can you tell me about Margaret?"

  "She was a beautiful girl, and so talented. She could draw before she could walk. That's an exaggeration of course, but that's what people said. When she was just a youngster, old man Hammond found her sketching inside the grounds of Hammond Hall. She'd just walked through the gates, pulled out her pad and made herself at home. That was Margaret. Bold as brass. Rufus, that was his name, Rufus Hammond, took a shine to her and began encouraging her artistry. The family still owned much of the village back then, and to be given such attention by the Lord of the Manor was quite something."

  "I'm sure it was."

  "A few years went by, the war broke out, and that's when Foster arrived. By this time Margaret had grown into a young woman, and Harrison, this was before Foster became known as Foster, he wasn't much older, but far more worldly. Long story short, it wasn't long before the rumors started about what a playboy he was. Margaret didn't seem to care, but neither did my mother. They were always up at the Hall. My mother said Foster had a way of making whatever he did seem all right, and she could never stay angry at him."

  "Charm like that is a gift," April remarked. "Troy was a bit like that. His smile. It was irresistible."

  "All through the war those three were inseparable, and for a few years after as well. My mother realized she'd never see a ring, so she smartened up and married my father, but Margaret…"

  "Yes. Please tell me."

  "This is all ancient history. Are you sure I'm not boring you?"

  "Not at all. I'm very interested."

  "It became quite the drama. A couple of years after my mother married, Margaret fell pregnant. She refused to name the father, though everyone assumed it was Foster. During the months that led up to that moment she'd made some trips to London. There were some galleries interested in her paintings, but it was Foster and Rufus who made that happen. They had a great deal of influence."

  "So she could have been with a man in London," April remarked.

  "A fancy man, that's what they were called back then."

  "If Foster maintained his claim the baby wasn't his, what happened?"

  "It was tragic. Absolutely tragic. Margaret's mother had passed away, and her father disowned her."

  "That's horrible."

  "He was a pious man, and he'd been disgusted with her behavior since she was a girl. No-one was surprised by his attitude, but Margaret was welcomed into Hammond Hall. It had been her second home for many years anyway."

  "The baby? Did she have the baby? Where is Margaret now? Do you know?"

  "She gave birth, but it was problematic," Ruth said with a sad sigh. "Margaret died a few hours after the baby was born."

  "Oh, my goodness. So…where is this baby today?"

  "Right here in this village."

  "Can you tell me who it is?"

  "I can, though I probably won't."

  "Ruth, this is extremely important."

  "Why? What is this urgent need to know about Margaret's child?"

  "I think she or he may be able to help find Troy's killer. Something inside me believes the answer lies buried in the past."

  "I see. You're very troubled about this, aren't you, my dear?"

  "It's so hard, Ruth. I loved—no—I Iove my husband deeply. We were so happy, and one night, two weeks ago—I'm sorry," she sniffled, wiping a rogue tear from her face, "I don't think Troy can rest in peace until I find peace, and I can't find peace until I know who did this, and why."

  "I've been thinking about contacting that nice detective," Ruth said soberly. "If your husband's death is not a random burglary that went wrong, I could shed some light on certain people, certain events. You might be right. The answers could very well be buried in the past."

  "If you know anything at all, please tell me."

  "Perhaps it's time for the secrets to come out," Ruth said wearily. "Forty plus years is a long time to carry such a burden. Foster's gone, my mother's gone. I'll tell you who that baby is right now, and how it might be relevant to your husband's unfortunate passing, but on one condition."

  "Anything."

  "I'll tell you, and I'll tell that detective, and I won't leave anything out, but you cannot make it public until I decide how I want that to happen. If I want that to happen. Do I have your word?"

  "I swear," April said solemnly, holding up her right hand. "I will only discuss what you tell me with Detective Banks, and not another living soul ever, without your permission."

  "You can only discuss it with Detective Banks after I tell him. I need certain assurances from him before he can know. You can tell him certain details, but not the identity of Margaret's Finch's child."

  "I won't tell him. I swear. Please tell me, who is the baby? Where can I find her?"

  "You're looking at her, my dear. I'm Margaret's illegitimate daughter, and Foster Hammond was not my father. But I do know who was."

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Back at Hammond Hall, Jake and Dan were packing up the van, while Jonathan had returned to the house to fetch something, promising to only be a minute. The search had been fruitful. Three sets of fingerprints had been found in the kitchen, on the artwork, and on packages of food they'd discovered in the cupboards. There were also recently washed cups and bowls. The criminal threesome had been enjoying the abandoned servants' quarters.

  "Jake, I have something else I need you to check for me," Jonathan declared, appearing through the front door still wearing his gloves and carrying a casserole dish. "Can you run a test on the contents of this bowl?"

  "What are we looking for?"

  "I'm thinking a food poisoning agent, and enough to kill. Salmonella, botulism, something like that. Or maybe a sleeping agent."

  "No problem, but we don't need the whole dish."

  "I'd like you to check it for prints as well."

  "No problem. Do you want our recap?" Jake asked, taking it from him and handing it to Dan to bag.

  "Definitely."

  "As you already know, we're looking at three people. The prints were clear, especially on the cartons and the mugs. If the perps are in the system we'll have a result by the end of the day."

  "That would be great," Jonathan said hopefully. "I really want to find these bastards and throw away the key."

  "The footprints are a size seven woman's shoe, and we found evidence that someone was sleeping in one of those bedrooms."

  "No kidding. Those footprints have to belong to the woman I saw at the well."

  "Probably, and she was doubtless who had been using the bed. The pillowcase and sheets had been freshly laundered. The smell of perfume, especially on the pillow case, was fairly evident. We've bagged them. I'm sure we'll find hairs."

  "Thanks, fellas. I know it's your job, but thanks. Beer's on me next time you're up this way."

  "Hey, no sweat. I'll be in touch soon," Jake promised. "I've got a good feeling about this. Sorry. I'm not sure that was the right thing to say. I'm always opening my mouth and inserting my foot."

  "For the record, I am too. Drive safe. Bye, Dan."

  "Bye, Jonathan."

  He watched them climb into the van and back onto the street, and as he walked back to the house his phone rang. Pausing to check his phone, he s
aw it was his young detective, Peter Shoebridge.

  "Hello, Peter. Do you have something?"

  "I sure do. I'm only a few minutes away. How would you feel about hearing it over lunch at the White Goose Pub on the lake?"

  "Sounds great, but you'll need to pick me up. I've lent my car to April Hammond."

  "I'll be right there."

  "Great. See you shortly."

  Ending the call, he immediately texted April.

  Meeting up with one of my junior detectives for lunch at the White Goose. We'll be sitting outside so I'll take Terrence. No need to rush back. Call me if you need me.

  Walking into the back yard, he entered the kitchen, picked up Terrence's leash, then stepping back outside he called his name. As Terrence trotted up, he spied the leash in Jonathan's hand and ran around in circles, excited at the prospect of a walk. Clipping it on the collar, Jonathan walked out to the driveway just in time to see Peter's car rolling to a stop at the curb. His phone chimed, signaling a text, and glancing at it in his pocket he saw it was from April.

  At precisely the same moment, a short distance ahead a rabbit bounced out from the hedge that lined the backyard. Terrence instantly bolted, jerking the leash from Jonathan's hand. The rabbit dashed back into the hedge, but Terrence would not be deterred, and with Jonathan trying to catch him, he began running up and down, barking furiously, drowning out the ringing of Jonathan's phone. The call went to voice mail. Finally managing to grab the leash, he paused for a moment to catch his breath, then headed to the car.

  "I know you were doing what comes naturally," Jonathan said good-naturedly, "but good grief."

  Not aware he had a voicemail waiting, and assuming April's text had simply confirmed his message, he put Terrence in the back of Peter's car and climbed in.

  But the message from April was not a mere acknowledgement.

  Jonathan. I know who killed Troy and why. I'm going to try calling you. Get back to me as soon as you can. I'm on my way home.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  A short distance from Hammond Hall, George was in his truck parked on the side of the street. After watching the detective head off he glanced in his rear view mirror. His uncle was approaching. Grabbing a toolbox from the floor in front of the passenger seat, George climbed out and waited. Ned pulled up behind him, stepped from his small compact, and the two men walked towards the house. Striding up the drive, they continued down the narrow path alongside the garage. Wordlessly approaching the gate, Ned tore away the police tape while George retrieved a pair of bolt cutters. The padlock and chain were quickly dispensed with, and jimmying open the door at the foot of the steps took less than a minute. Continuing through the servants' quarters, they entered the laundry and walked into April's modern, bright kitchen.

  "Where should we do this?" George asked, an evil smile curling the edges of his lips.

  "Wherever we happen to be when she runs across us. You got the alibi all set up, right?"

  "Yep. We're at Hanson's lumber yard around the back looking at the raw timber. Hanson will swear to it."

  "He'd fucking better," Ned growled. "Now I want to see what the bitch has lying around while we're waiting."

  "Her bedroom, that's where her jewelry and cash will be," George suggested. "Maybe I can have some fun with her before we send her off to be with her dead husband."

  "Not a chance."

  "Why not?"

  "Haven't you ever heard of DNA? And why aren't your goddamned gloves on."

  "Oh, yeah. Sorry."

  "Leave the toolbox. Just pass me the gun and get yourself a hammer."

  "Why can't I have the gun?"

  "Because you'll shoot your fucking foot off."

  "Why do you have to be so mean all the time?"

  "Why, why, why? Is that all you know? Just do what I say."

  "Sorry."

  With their weapons at the ready, they made their way through the dining room and into the living room, but Ned suddenly stopped.

  "What is it, Uncle Ned?"

  "Close those drapes."

  "Ah, right. Good idea."

  It only took a moment, then moving on to the stairs, they climbed them two at a time.

  "You go through her dresser," Ned ordered as they entered the bedroom, "and be thorough. Women are sneaky. I've found plenty underneath knickers and tucked into bra cups. I'll wait by the door and listen for her car."

  Ambling across to the cabinet against the wall by the window, laying his hammer down on the top, he opened up the first drawer, then the next, and the next.

  "This is all his stuff," he complained. "There's a watch here—"

  A loud crash and a shrill cry sent George spinning around.

  With blood gushing from the back of his head, Ned was crumpled face down on the floor.

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

  Quaking with fear and confusion, George picked up his hammer, gripped it tightly, and raised it in the air.

  "Who's there?"

  Met with silence, he stepped tentatively forward.

  "You'd better fucking show yourself."

  He could feel his heart slamming against his chest, and risking a glance at his uncle, he saw Ned's thin grey hair drenched in blood, and the heavy glass vase that had held the daffodils lying in pieces beside him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On the drive to the White Goose pub, Peter told Jonathan that M. Finch had been a local woman named Margaret Finch, and had been living in the village when Foster Hammond arrived as a young man at the start of the war.

  "Apparently they were quite an item, and a few years after the war ended she fell pregnant. Everyone believed it was Foster's, though he denied it. Her father kicked her out and she moved into Hammond Hall, where she died during childbirth. No-one knew what happened to the baby. It was assumed the infant was put up for adoption."

  "April was right," Jonathan remarked as Peter turned into the pub parking lot. "We found a painting of a woman holding a baby, and she thought it was a self-portrait."

  "You mean a woman painted those forgeries you found? Where did you find them? You didn't say."

  "No, I didn't. It's what's called, on a need to know basis. Margaret Finch was an amazingly talented artist buried in this small village. What else did you find out?"

  "Ned Clifton's father, Ollie, also worked for the Hammonds, but Ollie was a devout churchgoer. He hated how Foster and Rufus treated women, but especially Foster. Foster seduced his only daughter, Ned's older sister."

  "That young Foster really got around. Go on."

  "It gets worse. Ned was sweet on Maude. They both worked on the estate. Maude was in the kitchen with her mother."

  "No. Don't tell me."

  "Yep, Foster seduced her too, and he was quite a bit older than her at that time. When she realized he didn't give two hoots it sent her off the rails. She didn't want anything to do with Ned or any other man until the new Vicar moved into town. Ned told everyone he was going to kill Foster, but he continued to work at Hammond Hall, and I found out why. He's been stealing from him all these years. I found an account at a bank in London in his wife's name."

  "Hold on, that's my phone," Jonathan said, glancing at the screen. "Ah. I need to take this. Hello? Thanks for getting back to me. What have you got?"

  "You were right," the voice said, "about everything."

  "Bloody hell. Thanks," Jonathan replied, abruptly ending the call. "Get back to Hammond Hall, and fast! April's in danger."

  "What's going on?"

  "Just drive!"

  As Peter did a u-turn and sped from the parking lot, Jonathan's screen lit up with an incoming call. To Jonathan's great relief, it was April.

  "April, I was just about to ring you. Are you okay? Where are you?"

  "I just got home. Didn't you get my text or my voice mail?"

  "Ah, no. Why are you out of breath?"

  "I'm just wound up. I'm pretty sure I know who murdered Troy, and I was right about the painter. M. Finch was
a woman, and her name was Margaret."

  "I know, but, April, where are you?"

  "I'm pulling into my driveway."

  "Go inside and—"

  "Wait," she said hastily, staring at the house. "Did you close the living room drapes?"

  "No. Stay in the car. I'm less than a minute away."

  "What's going on?"

  "I'll tell you when I get there. Just please do as I say."

  The call ended, but as she continued staring at the drapes, she broke into a smile.

  "Troy, you did that. Silly me. Why didn't I realize? That's a relief."

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  George had never understood the term, frozen stiff, but now he did. He was watching, in abject fear, a grayish fog materialize next to his uncle. If that wasn't horrifying enough, a large shard of glass, completely of its own accord, slowly lifted off the floor.

  He wanted to beg, he wanted to scream, he wanted to run from the room, but he literally could not speak or move. When he began to feel a warm, wet sensation between his legs, it took him a few seconds to realize he'd urinated. Trembling but paralyzed, he watched as the razor sharp, glass dagger turned vertical, then plunged downward with lightning speed, piercing his uncle's back. Ned lifted his head, made a gurgling sound, then dropped, limp and silent.

  George decided he must be having a ghoulish nightmare. He'd had them before, though not as real or as horrifying, but it was the only explanation. Managing to squeeze his eyes shut, he was sure when he opened them he'd be back in his room, in his bed, and it would all be over.

  Then something tapped him on the shoulder.

  He slowly opened his eyes.

  It was impossible.

  He was standing over his uncle.

  His entire body began to shake.

  He felt himself being pushed to his knees.

  Someone—or something—was behind him.