Rules of Murder

by Julianna Deering

  “Come on in, Mr. Peterson,” Drew urged. “It’s all right.”

  The gardener nodded once more and, after taking a moment to buff the toes of his battered boots against the back of his trouser legs, ventured four steps closer.

  “Your name, please,” Birdsong began.

  Peterson pursed his lips. “Well, didn’t he just call me by it?”

  “For the record, if you please.”

  “Peterson. Arwel Peterson.”

  “And your profession?”

  Peterson displayed his grimy hands, dark with the sun and his work in the earth. “I didn’t get these of keepin’ the accounts, now, did I?”

  Mason cleared his throat. “If you please, Peterson.”

  “No disrespect, sir,” Peterson muttered, still worrying his cap. “I’m head gardener here at Farthering, Inspector. I never had me any truck with the p’lice. You’ll pardon me if it sets me a bit on edge.”

  Birdsong peered at him. “You have anything that ought to be worrying you?”

  “No. What do you mean?”

  “Something you’d rather not speak with us about?” Birdsong looked into his ever-present notebook. “No?”

  Peterson shook his head and swiped a hand across his stubbly upper lip.

  “Tell me what you did last Friday.”

  “The whole day?” Peterson asked.

  “The whole day.”

  The gardener scratched the side of his head with one grimy fingernail. “I gets up round five, as I reckon it, and gets dressed. My old woman, she give me beans on toast fer breakfast and a bit of black pudding and tea. Then I goes down to the shed fer my spade and such.”

  “Is that the shed where you kept the shotgun?”

  “It is.”

  “Go on.”

  “About then I sets Mack and Bobby, my men, you see, I sets them on to weedin’ and that whilst I tends to the roses. Mrs. Parker, God rest her, sir, Mrs. Parker was that fond of her roses, and I liked to keep ’em nice fer her. So I were mixing some top-class muckings from the stables into the soil round them, just to perk ’em up like. Took me nigh unto noon to do ’em all.”

  “All right,” Birdsong said. “And did you see anything during that time?”

  “I seen some of them has aphids.”

  “I mean anything unusual,” Birdsong pressed.

  “That is unusual for my roses.”

  Drew bit his lip.

  “Anything else?” the chief inspector asked.

  “There’s moles or somethin’ digging round in the bed nearest the forest.”

  Birdsong’s voice was most terribly patient. “Anything not to do with your roses.”

  Peterson shook his head.

  “And after you finished with the roses?”

  “I stopped round home to have my dinner. My old woman, she give me—”

  “And after you ate?”

  Peterson sniffed, his grubby face the picture of disdainful offense. “Well, I touched up the paint on a few of the tables in the greenhouse, and then I went round to do the fireworks, didn’t I?”

  “Touched up the paint?”

  “I painted the whole lot last week, but there’s always some bits needing a touch here and there.”

  “All right,” Birdsong said. “Was anyone with you when you set up the fireworks?”

  “I had Mack helping me put up the little stand we use to fire ’em from. Mostly it were me.”

  “Mr. Peterson,” Drew asked, “when you arrange the different ones, do you have any particular order you do them in?”

  “Order, sir?”

  “I mean certain types together or anything like that?”

  “Not really an order as I would say, Mr. Drew. I know your mum, God rest her, sir, she didn’t like them the same color together, if you know what I’m saying. She said it weren’t artistic-like.”

  “So you arranged them ahead of time.”

  “That’s right, sir. I laid them out the way they should be. Then, when the time came to fire ’em off, I didn’t have to try seeing which were which there in the dark.”

  “Capital,” Drew said, and the little gardener gave Birdsong a smug little nod.

  “Did anyone tamper with them?” the inspector asked.

  “Tamper with them?” Peterson scratched behind one ear. “I can’t say as they was tampered with, though I suppose I got some out of their proper order. Right there at the last were three or four reds together, bold as brass, I may say, and me trying to be so careful for Mrs. Parker.”

  Drew shook his head, commiserating. “And when you had them in order, what did you do with them?”

  “Like I always do. I put ’em in a trunk and put it up by the side of the house. That way they’d be ready for the party and still be out of the weather, if we was to have any.”

  “Did you stay there with the trunk afterward?” Birdsong asked.

  “Stay with it? Well, it weren’t going to wander off, were it? Stay with it? I can see you’re gulling me now, sir.”

  “No, that’s all right, Mr. Peterson,” Drew soothed. “What did you do after you put them in the trunk?”

  “I goes back down to see how Bobby and Mack are getting along with the weeding and such. Then I brought round some peonies from the greenhouse to put in that bed under the library window. The ones that were there were looking a mite peaked, so I thought—”

  “Yes, that’s all very well,” the inspector said. “So you did your gardening until . . . ?”

  “About teatime it was. My old woman . . .” Peterson looked at Birdsong. “Then after I’d had tea, I went to ask Mrs. Parker, poor lady, when she wanted the fireworks let off. She told me about an hour after they’d had their supper. Now, being an early riser as I am, I knowed straightaway I’d be worth nothing the next day if I didn’t have some rest beforehand, so that’s exactly what I done.”

  “And you slept till when?” Birdsong asked.

  “Near ten it were. I come up to the house, let off the fireworks, and hurries on back to my bed. I didn’t know nothin’ of what happened up to the house till they rousted me out to come watch over the greenhouse so no one made any mischief with the evidence.”

  “You said you got some of your tools from the shed that morning, is that right?” Mason asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you have the shotgun locked up then?”

  Peterson shook his head. “I can’t say as I did, sir. But I can’t for certain say as I didn’t.”

  “Did you see anyone around the shed who oughtn’t to have been there?” the chief inspector asked. “Anyone at all?”

  “No, sir.”

  Again, Birdsong scanned his notes. “I see you told Constable Applegate that you kept the gun locked in the shed. Was that in a cupboard of some kind? Or was it the shed that was kept locked?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t as a rule lock the shed. Bobby and Mack would need to get tools and such from it in the usual doin’ of their work. But I were always careful with the gun. I didn’t want none of the village children as might be poking about to light on it and think it a toy.”

  “So you kept it locked in what?”

  “An old crack-bottom steamer trunk.” Peterson frowned and stroked his unshaven chin in thought. “As I remember, it were once used by Mr. Elliot Farthering, Mr. Drew’s grandfather, when he traveled across to Canady. The split in the bottom don’t hurt it none. It’s as safe as a bank vault, that trunk.”

  The chief inspector nodded. “And you keep the key to it?”

  “I do, sir. I believe Mr. Dennison has one as well, along of all the household keys. And Mr. Parker.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Not as I know, sir. No one.”

  “And you’re certain it was locked?” Mason asked.

  “Oh yes, sir, Mr. Parker. I’m not a man to be reckless with firearms. You ask anyone, sir.”

  “I know he fairly tanned my hide when I got hold of one when I was a boy,” Drew said, smiling.
r />   “And well I should, sir, beggin’ your pardon,” the gardener replied, “and your father, God rest him, said as much at the time.”

  “Back to the matter at hand,” Birdsong said. “Did you know the murdered man, Peterson?”

  “Know him, sir?” Peterson shook his shaggy head. “Knew of him, I s’pose. His father and Mr. Drew’s father being partners and all, young Mr. Lincoln were about the place from time to time over the past many years. But he weren’t much the sort to pass time o’ day with them that was beneath him as it were.”

  “Do you remember seeing him about when you were doing the fireworks? Or before that?”

  “No, sir. I can’t say as I seen him at all during the weekend.”

  Birdsong made a few notes. “And what about Mrs. Parker? When did you last see her?”

  “The last time was when I asked about when she wanted the fireworks, sir. Directly after tea as I remember.”

  “All right then,” Birdsong said, looking rather more peeved than when he had begun the interview. “Can you think of anything more that might be of use to us in this matter? Anything at all?”

  “No, sir. That day were just the same as any other to me. Apart from the unfortunate happenings, begging your pardon, Mr. Parker. Mr. Drew.”

  “What about your men?” the inspector pressed. “Jackson and Haywood, are those their names?”

  Peterson nodded. “That’s them, and if they seen anything, they said nothing of it to me.”

  “Very well,” Birdsong said. “If you remember anything more, you get word to me. Understand?”

  “I’ll do that, sir. Sure certain, I will.”

  “Anything else, Mr. Farthering?” the chief inspector asked once Peterson was dismissed. “Anything you think might help us solve the murder?”

  Drew sighed. “I just don’t know, Chief Inspector. I can hardly believe it’s happened. I wouldn’t have believed it, but there it is.”

  “All right then.” Birdsong stood, and Drew and Mason followed suit.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help,” Mason said, shaking the other man’s hand.

  “You never know, Mr. Parker. Sometimes, when they’ve had a bit to think, people start remembering things.” The chief inspector gave Drew and Mason each one of his cards. “Now, if either of you should think of something, you ring me up. Even if you’re not sure that it means anything, you ring me up. And, Detective Farthering”—he shook his index finger at Drew—“you and that young Dennison scamp mind you don’t interfere with police business. Do all the clever thinking you want, and when you get an idea, I’ll be happy to hear it. But you let the police do the investigating. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Why, Inspector, I never—”

  “You two and Applegate might be old mates, but that holds no water with me. I’ll not have you spoiling any evidence.”

  “Upon my honor, Inspector, I will not spoil any evidence.”

  Seven

  His questions finally exhausted for the time being, Chief Inspector Birdsong left Drew and Mason to themselves. After a few awkward moments, Drew cleared his throat.

  “I have to ask you something, sir, and I hope you won’t take it wrongly.”

  “You want to know if I killed Connie.”

  Drew looked down. “I hate this. All of it. I couldn’t imagine you doing it, sir.” He looked up again, straight into Mason’s eyes. “But I couldn’t imagine her killing Lincoln or herself, either.”

  “I don’t mind you asking,” Mason said. “I’m quite sure the police have me at the top of their list at the moment. But to answer the question, no, I didn’t kill her or Lincoln or anyone. I guess the most damning bit of evidence against me is that no one can imagine who else would have.”

  “That is the question, isn’t it, sir?” Drew asked with a weak smile.

  “I suppose we’ll just have to let the police sort this all out.”

  “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

  Mason sighed. “Keep on with my work, I expect. Still things to clear up on McCutcheon’s desk now he’s gone. Lincoln never did much of anything of consequence, so no worries there.”

  “What happens to his share in the company?”

  “He inherited his father’s share according to the original partnership agreement, and that’s still in force. Everything goes to the three of us—you, me, and Rushford—since he left no heirs. None we know of anyway, though I expect there will have to be some sort of public notice to any possible claimants before that can be settled. That’s for the solicitors to hammer out.”

  “Any way I can be of help, sir?”

  Mason’s expression warmed, losing some of the distracted, harried look that had been in it since the night before. “That’s good of you, but I don’t know what you could do in such a matter.”

  “I mean to see what I can find out. Obviously the chief inspector is hard at work on the case, but we can’t be the only matter he’s got to see to. Who knows? Maybe I’ll stumble on something he’s missed.”

  Mason looked uneasy once again. “Do you think you ought? Murder’s no game.”

  Drew grinned. “Don’t worry, sir. I’m not planning to get myself bumped off, as they say in the cinema.”

  “I shouldn’t like something to happen to you, Drew. I’d say we’ve had enough of death here for some while, wouldn’t you?”

  There was something pleading in his stepfather’s eyes, something grieving, something not wanting to grieve anymore.

  Drew nodded, his own expression sobering. “More than enough. I’ll stay out of trouble.”

  “There you are.” Nick sprang up from the chair he had dragged into the corridor so he could wait in relative comfort. “I thought you’d be all day about it.”

  “You mean it’s still Sunday?” Drew asked as they went into the library, squinting and blinking as if he had just emerged from outer darkness. “What’s happened to Miss Parker?”

  “Old Birdsong found her out there and has been at her ever since.”

  Drew turned to the windows that looked out onto the garden. Madeline and the chief inspector were sitting on the same bench where she and Drew had sat the evening before. Birdsong was gesturing toward the greenhouse, and Madeline was shaking her head emphatically, her face flushed and her periwinkle eyes fiery.

  Drew frowned. “Poor kid. She’s hardly been here a day and this is what she gets.”

  “I like her,” Nick said. “She’s not one of these wilting little flowers who’d melt in a drop of rain, but she’s not out to make herself over into a man like some of these modern girls, either. I like her.”

  Drew’s expression softened. “So do I. Better than anyone I’ve ever met. I wish I could get her away from all this.” Frowning again, he shoved his hands into his pockets and paced in front of the windows, glaring at the chief inspector.

  “Steady on now,” Nick said. “He’s got to do his job. And there is a murderer loose somewhere.”

  “Don’t be too kind. He’ll have you in next.”

  “What’s the theory so far, may I ask?”

  “We have rather a neat explanation for all events as it stands,” Drew said. “Either A, scorned and blackmailed woman kills her lover and then herself, or B, jealous husband disposes of faithless wife and her blackmailing lover. Who else would have killed either of them?”

  “Have they brought up the possibility of murder?” Nick asked. “Of your mother, I mean.”

  “Not as such, no. But as the inspector reminds me, it’s early days yet. Dr. Wallace has called it death by misadventure so far.”

  “Bit of a coincidence to happen just last night, isn’t it?”

  “Birdsong is asking me if I didn’t do for them both,” Drew admitted, and Nick raised one eyebrow.

  “Because?”

  “Because,” Drew said, his voice artificially melodramatic, “Lincoln had stained the family honor and because I didn’t want to lose my inheritance.”

  “Your in
heritance?”

  Drew shook his head, not wanting to wade through the story yet again. “There’s not much you don’t know about me, Nick, old man, but this I didn’t even know myself.”

  He told Nick about Constance paying Lincoln’s blackmail to cover up Drew’s father’s indiscretion. When he had done, Drew looked at his friend, waiting for his reaction.

  “French, English, or Byzantine,” Nick said, “what’s that matter? I’d still put my last fiver on you against all comers at eighteen holes of golf.”

  Drew laughed. “I’m a rotten golfer, and you know it.”

  “Bit sticky finding this out just now though, isn’t it?”

  Drew exhaled heavily. “Rather. So I suppose I’m C, erstwhile son kills to keep sordid family secrets hush-hush.”

  “It couldn’t have been you,” Nick said with his usual wry grin. “Father Knox specifically says the detective must not be the murderer. It just wouldn’t be right.”

  Drew couldn’t hold back a little grin of his own. “Still on about Father Knox, are we? Anyway, Birdsong’s the detective in the case, and he’ll brook no interference from civilians.”

  “That’s as may be, but we mustn’t forget D,” Nick said. “Willful murder by person or persons unknown. Lincoln was such a charming fellow, he must have had just droves of admirers.”

  “But if someone we don’t know killed Lincoln, why would he kill Constance, as well? Or why would she kill herself over it?”

  Nick shrugged. “Perhaps she saw something she shouldn’t have.”

  “No,” Drew told him. “If that were the case, the murderer wouldn’t take the chance that she would go up to bed and take the Veronol without telling anyone what she saw.”

  “Unless it was someone she thought she ought to protect, and that someone decided she couldn’t be trusted to keep quiet.”

  There was a sick feeling in the pit of Drew’s stomach. “Mason.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Nick insisted. “I did not say that.”

  “Who else then?” Drew asked. “Who would have a reason to kill Lincoln and Constance? Her suicide makes sense only if she was the one who killed him in the first place. If she didn’t, then we have to assume the same person killed them both.”