Lord Winthrop shook his head vehemently. “No, no. I would’ve noticed a change in her, of that I am certain. In fact, I asked Isla to tell me—discreetly—should Edwina receive any strange visitors or communications. The dear child was torn in her loyalties, but I convinced her it was all for the best, and so she agreed.”
To think her uncle had pressured meek little Isla to spy on Aunt Edwina.
“But you can’t be that sure, or you wouldn’t be telling me all this. You’re horribly afraid that Aunt Edwina did know everything about Joel Taylor, that she saw him on the tour, and that, in a fit of bitterness and passion, she took the silver dagger and stabbed him.”
“To hear you voice my fears...” Her uncle’s chin wobbled.
“But Aunt Edwina said she was with Isla during that time.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Lord Winthrop’s face brightened briefly before sinking back into gloom. “Although Isla could be covering up for Edwina. You know what she’s like.”
Was that why Isla had been crying in the bathroom? The pressure of knowing the truth, of giving a false alibi?
Lord Winthrop lifted his head. “One thing is clear. You and I must protect Edwina with everything we have.”
“But shouldn’t we talk to her first? Find out what she really knows—”
“Absolutely not.” Lord Winthrop looked appalled.
“But we can’t—”
“No, I won’t have it! Not a word to her, do you understand?” He gazed intently at her. “We are family, and family stick together, no matter what.”
At the word family, Araminta’s protests fell away. Uncle George and Aunt Edwina were the closest to a proper family she’d ever had. She owed them everything. She would do anything for them. But did that extend to covering up a murder?
11. A Mug’s Game
ARAMINTA WATCHED AS her uncle’s Land Rover sped away down the quiet country lane. She should’ve insisted on staying with him, tried to discuss the matter further. But after their talk on the rooftop, he’d refused to speak another word, just drove her back to Cranley and dropped her off outside her home.
She looked at her cottage. It was a dear little place, but its mellow walls were too small for the whirling dervishes of her thoughts. If only Ian were alive. She shook her head. None of that hopeless mawkishness. Ian wasn’t here; she’d have to cope on her own.
Shoving her hands into the pockets of her cotton jacket, she headed down the lane, without a destination in mind. The weather was turning ugly, which suited her mood.
Soon she reached the village. Two boys kicked a ball on the green. A group of women were going into Good Nosh. The sight reminded her of Garrick, and how she’d been short with him yesterday. She ought to apologise, but not right now, not when she was still dazed and confused after Uncle George’s bombshell. She needed a place to pull herself together before she could face polite conversation.
The Jolly Fox stood nearby, its dark wooden door ajar. Entering the dim interior, she paused for a moment to get her bearings. The main room was empty of customers, a whiff of alcohol hanging in the air.
“Oy, we’re not open yet,” a barman said as he walked in with a carton of beer. “Come back at eleven.”
She glanced out the window. Down the road Bridy Fisher was cleaning the windows of her shop. If Araminta ventured out, she wouldn’t be able to avoid her and the obligatory chat. Faced with these choices, she decided to take her chances with the cranky barman and headed to the counter to take a seat.
McVeigh dumped the carton of beer next to her with a thump. “Didn’t you hear me?” He scowled at her. “I’m not serving no one until eleven.”
“That’s fine. I just want to sit here a while, if that’s okay with you.”
He glowered at her for a few more seconds. “Orright, but don’t get in me way.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She glanced around her, taking in the dusty lattice windows, the low ceiling beams, dark with age and soot, the inglenook fireplace that was lit in winter. The range of alcohol here was average, the bistro food tolerable only if you’d run out of options, and the ambience was of the take-it-or-leave-it variety. In short, there wasn’t much to recommend about The Jolly Fox, except that it was near home, and she was accepted here as a local.
McVeigh proceeded to unpack the carton and store the bottles in the refrigerators. He walked out, returned with another carton, and repeated the operation. When he was done, he filled a glass with ice and orange squash and pushed it towards her.
“For me?” She sat up in surprise. “Why?”
“You look like you could do with a drink, a proper one, but since I can’t serve you alcohol, that’s the best I can manage for now.”
“Why, thank you, McVeigh.” His unexpected kindness made her smile.
“Don’t go thinking it’s a regular thing now,” he said gruffly. “And don’t tell no one, either.”
He picked up a cloth and walked off. Araminta’s hands trembled slightly as she lifted the cold glass to her lips and took a gulp. Normally, she disliked the stuff, but the sugar hit would help.
But the tumult in her head was not so easily fixed. She still found it hard to imagine her upright and distant uncle having a liaison with another woman. She’d never witnessed any overt displays of love between her aunt and uncle, no handholding or nicknames or reminisces. But she’d never doubted the bond between them, either. Uncle George would be lost without Aunt Edwina.
Despite his affair, she sympathised with her uncle. He must’ve had a huge shock when Joel Taylor turned up, slick and handsome and brazen. Uncle George was adamant that the man was no son of his, but how could he be so certain? Only a genetic test could put any doubts to rest. Joel didn’t have the family nose, didn’t look like any of her Winthrop relations, but he did have arrogance in spades, and a rapaciousness that exceeded her father’s.
What was she to do with this new information? Her uncle had confided in her because the weight of what he knew was too heavy to bear alone, because they were family and he could count on her support. But she’d been a detective’s wife for years. Didn’t she have a duty to tell the police? Could she sit on her hands and do nothing?
“Finished with that?”
McVeigh’s voice startled her. Glancing down, she saw her hands clutched tightly around her empty glass.
“Thank you.” Her fingers ached as she let go of the glass.
McVeigh rested his elbow on the scarred counter. “Got summat to tell you.”
She eyed him warily. “Yes?”
“It’s about that Miss’den place a yours. The fancy house.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “Go on,” she said more curtly than she intended.
The barman frowned. The dull gleam of the interior lights gave his bald head a waxen sheen. “No need to get sniffy wiv me. I’m only trying to do yous a favour.”
She shifted on her stool. “I’m sorry, McVeigh. You were saying?”
He picked up the empty glass and rinsed it out at the sink, speaking over his shoulder. “Tell your auntie to watch out for that garden fella.”
“Ollie Saunders? Why?”
“He’s a bad ’un. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, neither. Fecking idjit, if you ask me—pardon me French.”
“What’s he done?”
He returned to the bar. “Bin trying to offload a bit of silver, is what. A wee mug, like a kiddy’s one, wiv a squirrel for the handle. Nice piece, but Ollie’s got no brains. He’s been blundering around trying to sell it for two hundred quid. Even tried it wiv me. Told me it was a bargain ‘cos it was worth one thousand quid.” McVeigh hoicked the back of his throat in disgust. “I ain’t just a pretty face. I know when something’s hot, and that wee mug is smoking.” He paused, gave her a sideways glance. “Not that I’d ever touch it, even if it wasn’t. I’m no fence no more. Mended me ways and all. I’m just tryin’ to give you a word of advice, is all.”
Araminta tapped her fingernails
on the wooden counter. “A silver mug with a squirrel handle?” It didn’t jog her memory, but then there were a lot of silver knick-knacks lying around at the Hall. “So you’re suggesting that Ollie Saunders stole it from Missenden Hall while he’s been working there?”
McVeigh shook his head. “Don’t know where he got it from, but he never picked it up in no boot sale like he says, or I’m a monkey’s uncle.”
“When did he try to sell it to you?”
“’Bout a week ago. The berk was right put out when I turned him down.” McVeigh bulked up his shoulders. The barman might have turned over a new leaf—or so he professed—but he was a tough nut. Ollie was foolish to lose his temper with him; foolish, or desperate.
“Is that why you were on the tour? Because of the silver?”
“Summat like that. Saunders weren’t too pleased when he saw me. That’s why we was rowing when you caught us.” McVeigh sniffed. “He’s a blithering knucklehead.”
The phone behind the bar started to ring. McVeigh ambled off to answer it, leaving Araminta to ponder what to make of this tidbit of information.
Was McVeigh telling her the truth? Rumour had it he’d done time for robbery somewhere else before settling here as the barman, courtesy of a family connection with the proprietor, Dawn Hicks.
“Well? Whatcher going to do bout it?”
McVeigh was back, a speculative gleam in his too-close-together eyes. Was he trying to con her into doing his bidding? To get Ollie Saunders into trouble?
Araminta sat up. “I’ll make some enquiries.”
The barman snorted. “Henquiries? Is that it? S’ppose you don’t believe me, huh?”
“You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve heard,” she murmured.
He didn’t seem to hear her. “Just cos I been in the nick before.” He grabbed a cloth and began to scrub the counter. “I go outter my way to give you some good information, and you just fob me off wiv yer henquiries.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“And don’t go repeating what I said to the coppers. If them pigs come asking, I’ll deny everyfink, understand?”
“Oh, so now you’re worried I will do something?”
He paused, looking non plussed. “You will?”
“I don’t know what exactly, but yes, I will.”
“Orright, then.” He tucked his cloth into his apron.
“Thanks for the drink.” She got to her feet. “I’d best be off.”
“Yeah, you’re hinterrupting me work.” McVeigh disappeared out the back.
Araminta exited the pub. Her head was clearer now for the break, even though McVeigh had given her more to contemplate, so she decided to drop in at Good Nosh and make amends with Garrick. As she set off, a male youth loitering in the lane beside the pub looked up.
“Got a light, Miss?” he said, strolling towards her with a cigarette dangling from his fingers.
There was something familiar about his lanky figure and greasy blonde hair. “It’s Tristan, isn’t it?,” Araminta said. “You were on the tour yesterday.”
The teenager stopped, his mouth falling open. “Oh, yeah. You’re the lady wot almost broke my fingers.”
“I did not,” she answered firmly. “You were behaving like a brat.”
To her surprise, a grin spread across his pimply face. “Yeah, I was. Keeps me mum on her toes.”
Oh, for goodness sakes. Araminta grimaced at the teenager. “Smoking’s bad for you.”
“Bet you tried it when you was my age.”
She couldn’t refute that.
“So the cops caught the murderer yet?” Tristan asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
The teenager leaned a shoulder against the wall of the pub. “I know who dunnit. It was the gardener. I saw him squabbling with the guy wot got killed.”
She squinted at him. “Where was this?”
“Round the side of the big house. Away from the crowd.”
Araminta digested this new information. This must be the argument that Isla had half-seen from the upstairs window of Aunt Edwina’s study.
“Did you tell the police?” Araminta asked.
“Uh-huh. Told one of the coppers in uniform. He didn’t take me seriously, I don’t think.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.”
Turning, Araminta saw Debra, Tristan’s mother, storming out of Good Nosh, her face as puce as the tight dress that encased her solid figure.
“I’ve never been so insulted in my life!” she fumed.
Several people in the street stopped to look. Garrick emerged from his shop, looking bemused, a bottle of cordial clasped to his chest. Debra threw one last furious glare in his direction before stomping towards her son.
Tristan let out a groan. “She’s on the warpath again,” he muttered out the side of his mouth.
“You’d better hide that cigarette,” Araminta said.
He’d barely stuffed the cigarette into his jacket when his mother reached him and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on, we’re leaving. I’m not staying a minute more in this bleeding dump.”
“What happened there?” Tristan tilted his head towards Good Nosh.
Debra’s face grew even ruddier. “I don’t want to talk about it!” Ignoring Araminta, she dragged her son away and disappeared around the corner.
Araminta walked up to Garrick. “What did you do? Refuse to sell her a bottle of cordial because it would mess up your display?”
The corner of his long mouth twitched. “I would’ve sold her the cordial, but she insulted my goat’s cheese. Said she wouldn’t eat something covered in dirt. It’s ash rind, for Pete’s sake. I told her in that case she might as well leave. Don’t know why she got on her high horse about that; I didn’t treat her any differently from everyone else.”
Araminta couldn’t help smiling. “She and her son were on my first and only tour yesterday.”
“Ah. Them. Makes sense.” He hesitated, his brow wrinkling. “Come in for a spot of lunch?”
“Thank you.” She stepped into the shop. “And Garrick, I...well, I’m sorry I was short with you yesterday.”
He set down the bottle of cordial and held up a hand. “No offence taken. I guessed you’d got a lot going on at the moment, and I’m a pretty grumpy sort myself. Cherise has taken the day off, so...” He quickly closed the door and latched it.
“You’re closing the shop? In the middle of the day?”
“Mm, isn’t it marvellous? No interruptions.” Rubbing his hands, he moved towards the deli counter. “Now, there’s a really yummy chicken pie I want you to try.”
“Is Cherise okay?” Araminta asked.
“Well, she sounded rather stirred up on the phone.”
“Oh.” Could Cherise be hiding something? Why had she lost her temper with Ollie Saunders and thrown a pepper grinder at him the other day?
“You’re staying for a spot of lunch?” Garrick held up a large dish covered in golden flaky pastry.
“I’d like that,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she could stomach much food when her insides were still tied in knots. “I can’t stay long, though,” she added.
He turned back to her, his expression sober. “We don’t have to talk about anything. In fact, I enjoy not talking.”
“At the moment that sounds like bliss.”
“We won’t talk at all, then. But just so you know, I’m here.”
Araminta didn’t reply. Garrick was a good friend. But what she’d learned today showed that she couldn’t take anyone on face value anymore. What she needed to do, she had to do on her own. She could trust no one except herself.
12. Up to No Good
TRUE TO HIS WORD, GARRICK made little attempt at conversation except to rhapsodise over the chicken pie. Araminta managed only to pick at her food, her mind preoccupied. Afterwards, she walked home, but her restlessness increased as her anxieties continued to plague her. Eventually giving in, she got into her car and headed bac
k to Missenden Hall.
Since her visit this morning, the weather had worsened. The mansion crouched under a murky sky, the surrounding trees soughing in the wind. A flurry of leaves blew between her legs as she climbed out of her coupé. The place looked deserted, almost bleak. She glanced up at the rooftop where just a few hours ago her uncle had made his extraordinary admissions. A flock of birds flew up with much squawking and flapping, rattled by the unsettled weather. She watched them flee for shelter before mounting the stairs and using her personal key to let herself into the Hall.
Inside, it was cool and still. She made her way down the hallway, her footsteps echoing on the black-and-white tiles, making her acutely aware of the silence. She was used to the house being muted, but now, in her state of heightened trepidation, there was an added sharpness to the quiet.
Pull yourself together, she told herself. This was no time to let her nerves get the better of her.
The first thing she had to do was find out if McVeigh was right. He’d seemed quite certain that the silver mug Ollie Saunders had tried to hock had come from Missenden Hall. With that in mind, she hurried to the Great Hall and headed straight to the display cabinets which held the family’s china and silver. Although the best collectables had long since been sold off by previous generations, some of the remaining pieces were still impressive. She had little idea of their individual values, and neither, she suspected, did her aunt or uncle. In fact, as a child she had often played with the silverware in the butler’s pantry, and no one had seemed to mind, not even the housekeeper.
She studied the silver in the cabinets, trying to see if there were any gaps that might indicate a piece was missing, but all the displays appeared in order. Then, at the final and smallest cabinet in a corner, on the lowest shelf, one of the pieces caught her attention. A small, squat teapot, whimsical rather than elegant, with a handle in the shape of a squirrel scampering up a tree branch. Was this teapot a match for the silver mug that Ollie had tried to sell?
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