A Simple Country Killing

by Blythe Baker

My strength returned with every step I took away from the tree. It had been harder than I expected, going to visit that spot. In all the murders I’d experienced since arriving in Brookminster, I had never felt so distraught by a death. The beggar had saddened me, certainly, as had the widow who had reminded me of myself. But the vicar had died in front of me. I had to experience the death with him, be the last to see him alive. That was a privilege that not even his family had…and I carried it around like a stone in the pit of my stomach.

  I checked to make sure the scarf and hat I wore were properly covering my face before I stepped out into the street once again, much nearer to the church than before.

  It would be easy enough to head back to the teahouse without being seen. I imagined that most people would have moved on with their days, not worrying much about a woman who was wandering about.

  At least…that was what I hoped for.

  Feeling discouraged, I turned to head back to Irene, to tell her what little information I’d found, when a voice across the street caught my attention.

  “You’re not the first one curious about his death…”

  I stopped in my tracks, wondering for a moment if I’d heard correctly or not.

  I shifted my gaze across the street to a little rundown cottage at the end of the street, dwarfed in size by well-maintained homes on either side.

  The man who had spoken stood in his front garden, clutching a cane that seemed to wobble as he leaned upon it. He’d just risen from a rickety, wooden chair that looked as if it might fall apart at any moment. He was scrawny in the arms and legs, but a round belly protruded from his middle, the buttons bulging somewhat.

  “Been about a dozen folk streaming in and out of there, pretending to go visit the graves of loved ones, or taking a shortcut. Bah…” he said in a raspy, tired voice. “We all know they just wanted to see the exact place where he died.”

  I blinked a few times, wondering again if I’d heard him correctly.

  “I’m sorry, are you speaking to me?” I asked.

  “Who else would I be talking to?” he asked, his bushy, grey eyebrows coming together in a wrinkled line across his forehead. “The sky? The trees? They’re not very good company.”

  Oh goodness, I thought. This man may very well not have all of his marbles.

  “I was right, though, wasn’t I?” the man asked. “You’re not the first one. There have been a lot of people wandering around here lately, same as you, checking over their shoulder to make sure they haven’t been followed. I’ve seen those guilty looks.”

  For a moment, I considered denying what it was I’d been doing in there. It surprised me just how accurate the man was, how easily he had seen through me.

  He’s seen others wandering around through here…I wonder if he saw the killer?

  I glanced up and down the street, checking to make sure there were no cars or bicycles coming, and hurried over to the old man’s gate into his front garden.

  From this close, I realized that it must have been some time since the man had taken care of his belongings. Every corner of the yard was cluttered with some mess; old terracotta potters, an old push mower, a rusted trio of buckets…

  The lawn itself was ratty as well, overgrown along the outside of the house, and along the base of the wild looking elm tree growing in the side yard. A wheelbarrow stood off to the side, laden with dirt and weeds, a pair of rubber gloves draped over the handlebars.

  “A lot of people have been going to pay their respects, then?” I asked the man.

  The man grunted in reply. “Pay their respects? Weren’t you listening to a word I said? They were coming to see where he died. Wanted to see if they could spook themselves by seeing his ghost or some such nonsense.”

  “What sort of people?” I asked.

  The man shifted his weight, his cane wobbling again. “Who might be asking? You aren’t with the police, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “My name is Penelope Driscoll. I’m Nathanial’s cousin.”

  “I see,” the man said. “Thought you might be working for Inspector Graves, with that get up you have on.” The stiffness of his stance seemed to lessen. “Name’s Barty Grey.”

  I self-consciously touched the scarf wrapped around my neck. Doesn’t like the idea of the police snooping around, hmm? “Have they been coming around often? The police, I mean,” I asked.

  “Every day, it seems,” he said. “Not surprising, though. I imagine they want to find whoever it is that killed Mr. James.”

  My heart skipped as I glanced over my shoulder up at the church. It seemed so pretty, so cheerful even, bathed in the warm sunlight. I said, “I heard it was that Helen woman, the one who used to spend so much time with that murderer Sidney Mason.” Stoking the flames of the fire may prove fruitless, but it was clear he didn’t recognize me in this disguise. I wondered if he would have recognized me, anyway.

  The man shook his head. “I’ve heard the same thing, but wasn’t she the one who cleared her aunt’s name as well? Found out that Mrs. Martin had been bribing and blackmailing customers? She doesn’t strike me as the type to do that, not with that sort of self-righteous behavior.”

  I opened my mouth to agree with his generosity, but as his last comment sunk in, a defense rose to my lips, and I just barely managed to swallow it before outright challenging him.

  Self-righteous? Me? If only he knew what I had to go through in order to get the information I was looking for…

  “So who do you think did it, then?” I asked, as casually as I could with flushed cheeks. “Has anyone walking around the churchyard seemed suspicious lately?”

  Barty’s gaze shifted over my shoulder, peering into the front garden of the church. “Well, unfortunately, that could have been anyone, really. As I said, there have been many who have done exactly what you did. Though I’m not certain that a killer would have returned to that spot, even if they were curious about what happened to the body. Too risky.”

  “Risky, indeed,” I said, folding my arms. “It’s all so very strange, though, isn’t it? The poor man, killed in broad daylight, and no one can seem to find out who did it. It’s all anyone in the village can speak of.” That was the truth, of course. Irene had told me that she heard it mentioned at nearly every table in the teahouse at least once during the last few days.

  “That’s what I’ve heard…” Barty said, shaking his head. “I’ll be happy when it’s all put to bed, I tell you. All this commotion is not good for my heart.”

  “Yes, I can see how it might be disturbing,” I said.

  I wanted to continue to ask questions of this man, but was not certain as to whether it would produce any sound clues.

  “Have you seen anyone come around here more than once?” I asked.

  “You seem awfully interested for someone who isn’t helping the police,” Barty said with a slight edge to his words.

  “I’m simply curious,” I said. “I certainly did not mean to offend.”

  “You haven’t,” Barty said heavily. “I’m just tired of answering these questions, is all.”

  “You’re simply the first person I’ve met who seems to know more than anyone else.”

  “I don’t know anything more than anyone,” he said, somewhat hotly. “How could I? All I’ve seen is people coming in and out of there. No one’s talked to me, not really. Not except the police, asking if I saw anything the day Mr. James was killed…”

  My eyes widened. “Did you?”

  “No,” Barty said heavily, with apparent disappointment. “No, I didn’t. But I wish I had.”

  Silence fell between us, making me look back at the church and the cemetery beyond, wondering what secrets it held that I just couldn’t quite figure out.

  “It is a pity, really…” I said. “Mr. James was such a nice fellow.”

  The man grunted. “Everybody has a past, though. I know it makes me unpopular, but I always thought something was strange about him. I never could trust him, myself.”
>
  I stared at the man, finding myself surprised. He was certainly right; that would be seen as an unpopular opinion among the townsfolk. “But he was so kind,” I said. “So generous with his time and energy.”

  Barty slowly lowered himself back down into his chair, his knuckles nearly white from gripping his cane for support. “Perhaps,” he said. “But people like him always struck me as fake. No one could be like that all the time. Not even a man of God.”

  I frowned. “That’s a rather cynical view of the world. You remind me of someone I know who would likely agree with you.”

  The man’s face split into a reluctant smirk. “I’m not proud of my cynicism, Miss. But years of people breaking their promises and turning on each other tends to make you think less of those around you.”

  I could understand what he meant, which surprised me. “I…think I know what you mean,” I said.

  The man let out a hollow laugh. “You’re too young to know what I mean.”

  The church bells began to chime, then, signaling the noon hour.

  “My apologies, Miss Driscoll, but these old bones require more rest than they used to,” Barty said, struggling to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go have some tea.”

  “Oh, certainly,” I said. “Thank you for answering a young lady’s curious inquiries, Mr. Grey.”

  He dipped his head. “I’d say it was my pleasure, but murder is unsavory business, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is,” I said, watching him as he wandered back to his front door. “Indeed it is.”

  10

  I tried not to run all the way back to the teahouse. Very nearly dancing with my nerves all in a bundle, it became difficult for me to remain calm as I chewed on the events that had just transpired.

  While there had been no obvious evidence at the scene of the crime, there had been one rather crotchety old man who seemed to have a great dislike for Mr. James. Of course, his dislike seemed to make some semblance of sense, given he had provided a reason, though somewhat vague, for not trusting the vicar.

  Regardless, I now felt that I had grounds to speak with Sam Graves. Between the old man, the lack of evidence at the site of the death, the vandalism of my home, and curiosity about what Sam had found, if anything, about Lucas Adams, it was time to give him another call.

  “Go on ahead and use the phone,” Irene said when I pulled her aside upon arriving back at the teahouse. “Do you plan to go down to the station?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m going to use another false name when I call so I don’t run into any trouble with the receptionist like I did before.”

  “Fair enough,” Irene said. “If Inspector Graves wishes to discuss these matters in person, why don’t you see if he wants to come for dinner tonight? That would provide a place to speak without any unwanted ears listening in.”

  Thinking her idea was a good one, I made my way upstairs, sat myself down beside the telephone, and dialed the number for the police station.

  Heart beating rapidly, I waited for someone to answer the other line.

  “Brookminster Law Enforcement office,” said the nasally voice of the receptionist, Rachel, on the other end.

  Goosebumps appeared on my skin in a wave, making my head spin. I cleared my throat, and putting on the best accent I could, picked up the persona I’d used when speaking to Mrs. Georgianna, mimicking Sidney’s Scottish accent. “Yes, hello, might I speak to Inspector Graves, please?”

  “I’m sorry, but Inspector Graves is very busy, and has asked to not be disturbed,” Rachel said in a flat, uninterested tone, though lacking the hostility that she seemed to save exclusively for me. It seemed my guise was working.

  “I imagine he is quite busy,” I said. “But this matter is very important, and of a sensitive nature. I am out of town, otherwise I would come down to speak with him at once.”

  An exasperated sigh made my blood start to boil. Was she truly that put out by my request? “I’ll see what I can do, but I cannot make any promises. One moment, please.”

  I bit down on the end of my thumbnail as I waited. That woman was utterly infuriating sometimes. What was she doing that was so much more important than her job? Painting her nails? Smoking yet another cigarette? Gossiping with Paige?

  I certainly wouldn’t put it past her.

  Nearly five minutes went by before I heard the rustling of the receiver, and she spoke again. “Inspector Graves would like to know who it is that is disturbing him when he so clearly asked not to be,” Rachel said. “His words exactly, I’m afraid.”

  I bit my tongue so hard the metallic tang of blood coated my mouth. “Tell him I’m his old friend from that case about the German spy a while back…the one involving a decorated war hero’s wife?”

  “No name, Miss?” Rachel asked in a scathing tone.

  “Yes, you can give him my name,” I said. “Miss Klein. Daughter of General Klein.”

  “O – oh, my apologies,” Rachel said, all disdain fleeing from her tone. She may not have known the name but she was obviously impressed by the rank. “I am terribly sorry for my behavior. Let me go get the Inspector at once.”

  A distinct click followed her words, and I was left sitting in silence for a few moments.

  “A bit risky, isn’t it? Calling down here under a false name like that,” Sam said when he picked up the other end of the line.

  “How did you know it was me?” I asked.

  “Need I remind you what my profession is?” Sam asked with a low chuckle. “Though Rachel certainly had no idea it was you, so I suppose your undercover skills are improving.”

  “I’ve had a great deal of practice as of late…” I said, somewhat bitterly.

  “What happened now?” Sam asked.

  “Too much to explain over the telephone,” I said. “I was wondering if we could possibly meet so we could discuss these things I’ve found out without being overheard?”

  “Let me take a look at my schedule,” he said, and I heard rustling papers on the other end. “I have a meeting at half past three, but should be done before five. Where would you like to meet?”

  “Irene told me to invite you over to their house for dinner this evening,” I said.

  “Are you staying with them?” Sam asked.

  “For the time being,” I said. “Irene is worried that I am not safe alone in my home…and to be honest, I’m starting to believe her.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  “I’ll let you know when you get here,” I said, not wanting someone to overhear his end of the conversation.

  “Very well,” Sam said with a heavy sigh. “I will come by for dinner. What time should I arrive? Six? Seven?”

  “Six should be fine,” I said. “That will give us a chance to speak before we eat.”

  “I’ll bring something for dessert,” he said. “Stop by the bakery on my way over and find something.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen of the teahouse, anxiously waiting for the evening to come. I dutifully cleaned all of the cups that came back in, prepared the tea, and arranged the tea cakes on their floral china plates just so, adding some doilies that Irene had knit to the trays before sending them on their way with Nathanial.

  When we closed the tea shop, Irene and Nathanial were exhausted, so I offered to make dinner.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Irene said. “You worked all day, too.”

  “Please, it’s all right,” I said. “Besides, I’m the reason we are having company for dinner in the first place.”

  “We’re having company?” Nathanial asked, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief as we made our way up the stairs to their flat.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Irene said. “Inspector Graves will be joining us for dinner.”

  “Oh, the inspector…” Nathanial said. “How wonderful.”

  “I’m sorry…” I said. “I promise, we will keep our conversation brief.”

  “No, no, it’s
all right,” Nathanial said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m certain that we will have plenty of times in the future where our dining table isn’t filled with conversations about murder and death…”

  Guilt began to well up within me until Nathanial laid a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m joking,” he said, with a warm smile. “It’s all right. If it’s what is needed to clear your name, then it’s no trouble.”

  Feeling better overall, I got to work making dinner. I chose something simple, a shepherd’s pie.

  “I thought the men might appreciate a filling meal,” I told Irene as I hefted the cast iron into the oven to keep warm and brown the potatoes. “Especially if we are going to be talking about Mr. James.”

  Irene nodded. “It smells delicious. I’m sure they’ll be pleased.”

  A tiny face appeared around the corner of the hallway, sniffing the air eagerly. “Mum? When’s dinner?” Michael asked, his grey eyes wide with anticipation.

  “Very soon, honey,” Irene said. “I think we might feed you first so you can get outside and play before the sun goes down.”

  Michael’s face brightened. “Can I go play with Samuel if he’s outside?”

  Irene’s lips pursed, and I watched as she half rolled her eyes. “Couldn’t Samuel come and play with you tonight, instead?”

  “But Mum, he has that new slide,” Michael said. “And who knows how much longer we have to play in his pond before school starts again.”

  “Oh, that blasted pond…” Irene said, planting her hands on her hips. “No, no pond tonight. I don’t want you coming home soaking wet.”

  “But Mum!” Michael whined.

  “No,” Irene said, walking across to him and steering him back down the hall. “Either he comes here and you play marbles or jacks, or you don’t get to go out and play at all.”

  I smiled as I heard his indecipherable complaining disappearing as they went into his room.

  I heard voices coming from up the stairs, and soon recognized them as Inspector Graves and Nathanial. They were talking about business around the village in a very polite, formal manner.

  “Oh, something smells good,” Inspector Graves said as he stepped up into the kitchen, looking around as eagerly as Michael had.