by Joan Smith
“We’ve already discussed that,” Renshaw said.
I didn’t want to encourage Isaiah’s impudence and went on to the curricle. Renshaw remained behind a moment, talking to him.
“You should have given Isaiah a good set-down,” I said when Renshaw returned.
“We were just discussing the murder.”
“You take a ghoulish interest in all this.”
“Not at all. It’s merely mental exercise. A little puzzle to keep the mind active while I’m here. I can’t spend all my time chasing ladies. Aren’t you curious to hear what I discovered from Isaiah?”
“You shouldn’t encourage the boy to gossip. Well, what is it?” I asked brusquely. Of course I was on tenterhooks to hear whatever it was.
“Isaiah is often in the shepherd’s hut. He hides there when his papa wants him to help dig a grave. He’s seen a couple using it for what he calls ‘flings they shouldn’t ought to.’ “
“What couple?” I demanded at once.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t encourage gossip. But it was no lady’s maid, Miss Talbot. It was a lady and a gent.”
“Don’t be so provoking!”
“I might tell you ... if you promise to drive out with me again.”
I gave him a saucy smile. “I might drive out with you again ... if you tell me.”
“Might is not good enough.”
“You said only that you might tell me.”
“So I did. I shall now say positively that I will tell you if you’ll drive out with me again.”
I scowled, feigning displeasure, although I was not averse to going out with him again. “There is nothing to stop me from asking Isaiah myself.”
“No, no. It goes against your principles to encourage gossip. Never back down on matters of principle, Miss Talbot. You can save yourself a few pennies by accepting my offer instead.”
He helped me into the curricle, joined me, and flicked the whip. “Is it a date tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.
“All right.” To remove the triumphant look in his eyes, I added, “You didn’t have to resort to bribery, Mr. Renshaw. I might have said yes if you had just asked me nicely.”
“You know my opinion of ‘might.’ Now you’ve definitely committed yourself. Shall we say threeish?”
“Are you sure Beau won’t have other plans? You’re his guest, after all.”
“Why, to tell the truth, I believe he wishes me at Jericho. We have little in common after all the years apart. I’m thinking of removing to the Boar’s Head.”
“But you only came here to visit Beau!”
“True, but now I’ve promised dances to several ladies at the assembly. It would be ungentlemanly of me to renege.”
“Much that would bother you,” I scoffed.
“Well, then, if you insist on the whole truth, I’ve found Beau’s neighbors so genial that I can’t bear to tear myself away. Hops are but poor entertainment when all’s said and done. They’ll grow equally well whether I’m there to watch them or not.”
“Is it a large hop farm, Mr. Renshaw?”
He smiled knowingly. “Twenty thousand acres. It, and my other interests, give me ten thousand a year. I can’t complain.”
“Ten thousand a year! Why on earth did you ever bother going to India?”
“That’s a bribe for another outing,” he replied, and wouldn’t be budged from his position.
“Men who stand to inherit such a substantial fortune don’t usually leave home unless they’ve fallen into disgrace. I’m not sure your story will be fit for a lady’s ears,” I said.
“Did I mention I also stand to inherit from an uncle?” he asked blandly.
Really, he was too provoking for words. And too intriguing not to have caught my interest.
Chapter Seven
I was prevented from keeping my appointment with Renshaw the next afternoon by a horrid rain that dragged on all day. As Lollie said, it wasn’t enough rain to do the crops any good, but it was too much to let us enjoy the outdoors. Renshaw sent a note canceling the drive. I thought he might come for tea to lighten the tedium of a whole day spent indoors with Beau, but he didn’t.
Rainy weather always gives Aunt Talbot a fit of the dismals. Her object of scorn that day was Renshaw.
“Taking you to the water meadow, where murderers lurk,” she said, shaking her head. “What was the man thinking of, and you, Amy, to go with him? He might have killed you.”
“Surely a murderer works more cunningly than that, Auntie,” I replied, making a joke of it. “I shouldn’t think he invites his victims out on dates before killing them. That would tend to point the finger at him, would it not?”
“You speak as if the murderer was normal. It’s quite possible he’s a madman seized by uncontrollable fits of violence, like poor Maggie McGee is taken by those fits of stealing. There’s not necessarily any sense in it. Maggie’s a spinster, and you know perfectly well she took that horn-handled razor from the everything store. I saw her with my own eyes.”
Auntie enjoys a good argument. When she is losing, she resorts to supposition. I had a reply to this latest supposition that the murderer was mad, however.
“The murderer stole Stoddart’s five hundred pounds. That doesn’t look like irrational behavior.”
“We don’t know the murderer took the money. It’s gone, but who is to say Stoddart had it on him? It’s a good deal to carry about in his pocket. He might have bought something with it or paid a debt. Speaking of money, Amy, did you get any notion at all of how Renshaw is fixed financially?”
When I told her about the enormous income from his hop farm, she rallied in his favor for a half hour, but when still the rain continued, she soon changed her tune.
“What is to stop a man from saying he has an income of a hundred thousand a year, when no one knows him?”
“Beau knows him,” I pointed out. “He told us about the hop farm.”
“He didn’t say anything about ten thousand a year. Those bucks hang together like burrs when one of them is after an heiress. Don’t forget Mr. Maitland in your scurry after Renshaw. If you course two hares at once, you’ll catch neither. Personally, I don’t believe a word Beau Sommers says. We’ll have a look at this hop farm before committing ourselves. Whoever heard of anyone making such a fortune from hops? Now if it were sheep or cattle ...”
“Belview Farm supplies hops to dozens of brewers. They must make ten thousand a year,” I said.
“Good God! Is it Belview he owns?”
“No! I only mentioned it as an example. One sees their advertisements everywhere.”
“My wits are gone begging. Of course it couldn’t be Belview. That belongs to Lord Travers. That certainly takes the gilt off the gingerbread. For a moment there I thought you were on to something. Travers would never send his heir off to India.”
After a few hours of haranguing, I began to have doubts about Renshaw myself. I didn’t tell her about his curiosity regarding the murder, or finding the blue ribbon, or, worst of all, his notion of removing to the Boar’s Head. She would never countenance the latter especially. When a gentleman visits a friend, he visits him at his home, not a convenient inn. Maitland, on the other hand, was in high aroma for having buried Stoddart with no fuss and no expense to the rate-payers of the parish.
No one called that evening. The rain continued dripping until we finally retired at eleven o’clock.
* * *
We were up early the next morning. It was Lottie’s custom to rise at seven, like a good farmer. We were at the breakfast table shortly after eight when he came storming into the room. His eyes were open as wide as barn doors.
“The body’s gone!” he exclaimed.
“What do you mean, gone?” Aunt Talbot demanded. She didn’t have to ask what body. We knew it was Stoddart he meant.
“It’s been dug up from the grave. The grave’s empty.”
For some reason I thought of Renshaw and his extreme curiosity about the murder. “You’d best repor
t it to McAdam,” I said.
“Isaiah tells me it was McAdam who had it dug up. Isaiah was watching the men at the sheep dip.”
“It’s time the rascal did more than watch,” Auntie said. “At thirteen he ought to be working, but then who’d hire him?”
“The exhumation is official, not the work of the resurrection men,” Lollie continued. “I went to the graveyard myself. The grave is empty.”
“Why was the body dug up?” I asked.
“Isaiah didn’t know. He said his father had been hauled out of bed at the crack of dawn and asked to disinter the corpse. It was taken into Chilton Abbas.”
It is not to be imagined that our carriage was tardy in following the corpse to the village. We got the details of the story from Constable Monger, who had left his office and taken to the streets in his eagerness to spread the marvelous tale.
“The fambly was found,” he announced to his listeners. The audience consisted mainly of ladies, with a few gentlemen who had come with their wives or womenfolk.
“How?” Mrs. Carter demanded.
“There was a special-delivery letter of inquiry from London yesterday afternoon with the lad’s description.”
It struck me that even while Stoddart was being buried, that letter must have been on its way. It did seem a little odd, then, that Maitland had rushed the burial forward.
“How do they know Stoddart is the missing man?” a gentleman asked.
“His brother came rushing down last night, didn’t he?” was Monger’s reply. “He reckanized a few items that wasn’t buried. There was a book found at the inn.... That was enough to set up the dig. It’s all confirmed now. The brother says it was him, right enough.”
“Was he some kin to the Fanshawes?” Mrs. Carter asked.
“Nay.” Monger allowed a dramatic pause before making his announcement “He was a lord!”
Gasps of astonishment caused Monger to stop a moment and smile benignly at the effect he had achieved. When the gasps had subsided, he continued, “But only a younger son. Lord Harry Heston he was, the youngest son of Lord Dolman.” None of us recognized the name, but we knew the importance of a title.
“Where is this Lord Dolman from?” someone asked.
“Sussex.”
“What was a lord’s lad doing here?” Aunt Talbot asked.
“On a walking tour for the good of his lungs. His walk may have cured his lungs, but it proved unhealthy for the rest of him. Let it be a lesson to us.”
On this vague warning Monger swaggered along to the next corner, where more people were gathering. Our group remained behind to discuss the finding, with more questions than answers. Why had he called himself Stoddart? was the main question. He wasn’t so famous as a Byron or a Brummell that his name would have caused turmoil.
“It was a mighty slow walking tour,” Mrs. Carter said. “He was at that inn for three days and walked no farther than to the water meadow. Most of his time was spent sitting in the tavern drinking ale and talking to the locals. Mind you, he had the blunt right enough. That explains the five hundred. A lord’s son, fancy! He paid for more than his share of the rounds, they say. Much good all that sluicing would do his lungs. Trying to loosen a few tongues, do you think?”
“He didn’t look that frail, either,” Mrs. Davis added. “Not fleshy, but not pale or coughing at all. My husband showed him through the church and the lad never said a word about being a lord. He didn’t inquire for any Fanshawe, either. It’s not like one of them to be shy about putting himself forward.”
“He never called on Lord Hadley,” Mrs. Carter averred. “You’d think he would as he’s a lord. They’re all related, you know, everyone man jack of them.”
“What did they do with the body?” someone inquired.
“Took it home to Sussex for a proper burial, I expect. It was well done of Mr. Maitland to bury the lad, but he was a bit previous about it,” Mrs. Davis said, looking about for support.
“He meant well, though,” Mrs. Carter said firmly.
A shout echoed from the sweet shop, and looking up, I saw Isaiah tearing toward us, with Mr. Strong, the proprietor, hot on his heels. Isaiah was holding his shirt, which is where he stores his purloined goods until he is safely away.
He barged into the middle of our group, ending up at my side. “G’day, Miss Talbot.” He grinned. “Where’s yer fellow today?”
“What are you up to, Isaiah?” my aunt demanded, getting hold of him by the elbow.
“Nuthin’! I ain’t done nuthin’.”
Mr. Strong was upon us. He hauled Isaiah out by the shirttails and searched him, but he found nothing.
“I saw you taking those peppermint sticks. Where did you drop them, eh?” Strong demanded.
“I didn’t take nuthin’. Who’d want yer old peppermint sticks?”
Strong left in frustration. I felt a gentle movement at my side, and when I glanced down, I saw Isaiah’s dirty little paw sliding from my pocket, holding three peppermint sticks. He had hidden them in my pocket before being searched. Really, that scamp was up to anything. I didn’t make a fuss of it. One accepts Isaiah as he is.
Some villages have an idiot; we have a thief. But Isaiah is helpful in many ways. He is always eager to run a message or help find a lost child. Besides, he has it hard at home. His mama is simple and his papa drinks. I’ve seen bruises on Isaiah on more than one occasion. He denies to the last gasp that his papa beats him, but I suspect it is so.
Lollie, who hasn’t the stamina for prolonged gossiping, suggested that we go home. Auntie wanted some white thread for a new petticoat she was making, and we went to the drapery shop to buy it and continue gossiping while Lollie went for the carriage.
Mrs. Murray was there, all but sobbing. She had lost Fifi, her small, white cobby dog with long, silky hair. A Maltese, she calls it. It is some rare species her doting husband got for her in London. She pulls the hair off its face and ties it with a ribbon. A blue ribbon, now that I think of it. Perhaps Fifi had been playing in the shepherd’s hut.
“I only let her out for a little exercise. She’s never run away before. She’s suspicious of strangers. She would never have followed anyone. I fear she’s been kidnapped.”
“No one would steal her,” my aunt said. “She’d be recognized a mile away. There’s not another dog like Fifi in the county.”
“I won’t tell you what she cost. You wouldn’t believe it. I’ve asked Mulliner to put a notice in the window. I’m offering a five-pound reward,” Mrs. Murray said.
Half the ladies in the shop darted out the door to look for Fifi; the other half remained behind to exclaim over such largesse and then to continue discussing Lord Harry.
As Auntie and I came out of the drapery shop some minutes later, we met Maitland. He looked exquisite as usual.
“Oh, Mr. Maitland,” my aunt said. “Have you heard the news about Lord Harry Heston?”
“Indeed I have,” he said, doffing his hat and bowing. “McAdam called on me late last night to inform me of it. I’m sorry I rushed the funeral ahead. I discussed it with Lord Hadley. He thought the sooner it was done, the sooner it would be forgotten. It is distressing to the ladies in particular. A strange tale, is it not? A walking tour that ended in murder. Our water meadow is hardly a holidayer’s paradise, eh, Miss Talbot?” he added to me with a warm smile.
“Amy wouldn’t agree with you there, Mr. Maitland,” my aunt said, simpering. “Anywhere there is a wild-flower sprouting is paradise to her.”
“I know it well.” He gave me another smile. “There are some very pretty bluebells in my spinney. You must feel free to sketch them.”
“I’m sticking close to home until they catch Lord Harry’s murderer,” I replied. I doubted his bluebells were any different from those growing at Oakbay. I would have been more pleased with the invitation if he had offered to accompany me.
“I shouldn’t think you have any reason to worry, ma’am. I suspect young Lord Harry got himself mixed up in
something in London. A duel, perhaps. If he killed his man, he’d have to rusticate. No one would look for him in this quiet place.”
“That might account for his being here under an assumed name, but who could have killed him?” I asked.
“The friends or relatives of whoever he killed in the duel, perhaps. They might have followed him and waited their chance. A sad business for Lord Dolman. The more you stir it, the worse it stinks. My game warden mentioned seeing a tall, young gentleman talking to Lord Harry in the graveyard the day before he was killed. I am on my way to mention it to McAdam.”
“What did the gentleman look like?” my aunt asked at once.
The description was vague. The man was taller than average. He had been wearing a hat that concealed his hair. All that was certain was that he wasn’t a local man and that he was dressed like a gentleman. I mentioned the similar-sounding stranger Addie had reported being seen in town. Maitland had also heard of him but could add nothing to identify the man.
“An unfortunate business all around,” he said, shaking his head, “Very unfortunate. I don’t hold with dueling.”
Auntie commended him for his proper thinking. We soon saw our carriage approaching and took our leave of Maitland.
Aunt Talbot relayed Maitland’s idea to Lollie, who doesn’t much care for Morris Maitland. It is actually Maitland’s steward he has had a few run-ins with over grazing sheep on what Lollie believes is our land, but Lollie holds Maitland responsible. “Very convenient, this tall stranger who has disappeared,” he said.
“No doubt Mr. Maitland has figured it out,” Aunt Talbot said. “He is a knowing one, and so kind, burying the body even before he knew who it was. A real gentleman. I wonder if Lord Dolman will reimburse him for the funeral. Kind of Mr. Maitland to invite you to sketch in his spinney, Amy.”
“He ain’t such a saint as you make him,” Lollie said. “I’d steer clear of his spinney if I were you, Amy. You know his reputation with the ladies. They do say he even fools around with his own servants. When a man fouls his own home paddock ...”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” Aunt Talbot scoffed. But she never encouraged me to go to his spinney after that afternoon.