Rules of Murder

by Julianna Deering

  “I saw the inspector had old Peterson in, too. Was he any help?”

  Drew shrugged. “Not much. Said the fireworks weren’t the way he’d laid them out and his roses have aphids. He’d never even met Lincoln, so he hadn’t much to say in that respect.”

  “Really? I’d have thought Opal would have had him to dinner some Sunday. Perhaps Lincoln was more the sort to wait for a girl in the street.”

  “Opal knew Lincoln?”

  “If local gossip is to be believed. I never saw them together, but I didn’t really know Opal myself much more than to speak to.”

  “I thought she’d gone away.”

  “She did. Months ago.”

  “I guess Peterson didn’t say anything about her. I suppose there’s more than one father not wise to his daughter’s goings-on.”

  “True enough. But that’s not going to help this case. What we need is evidence. We just don’t know enough yet.” Nick’s voice took on that mischievous tone Drew knew only too well. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t find out.”

  “I mean to find out,” Drew assured him, his grim expression returning. “I mean to find out a great many things.”

  “I don’t know if the chief inspector will take much to the idea,” Nick said. “He’s not likely to want a couple of nosey Parkers poking about.”

  “We won’t interfere with them,” Drew assured him. “I’ve given my word on that point.”

  “All right then, where do we start?”

  Drew considered for a moment. “If Lincoln was blackmailing Constance, it’s not much of a reach to imagine he had other clients as well. I don’t suppose there’s any way they’d let us look at his bank records.”

  “Not half,” Nick said with a snort.

  “So then, what can we find out? The police aren’t likely to let us search his flat or anything so helpful as that, but they can’t stop us from talking to people. I wonder if Mason would know who his friends are.”

  “Mightn’t Rushford?” Nick asked.

  “Possible, I suppose, but not too likely. Rushford’s a bit fussy to be spending his off hours with a bounder like our Mr. L. We could get his address from someone at Farlinford. They must send his dividend checks somewhere. Chelsea, if I remember.”

  “There’s always a garrulous landlady or maid of all work at the flat of anyone recently deceased, isn’t there?” Nick asked.

  “We can only hope,” Drew replied.

  “Hope what?” Madeline smiled as she came up to them, but there were traces of red in her cheeks along with a hot touch of temper in her eyes.

  “Did the inspector give you a bad time, darling?” Drew asked, and she shrugged.

  “I guess that’s his job.”

  “Shall I punch his nose?”

  She laughed and took his arm. “I’d rather you took me for a walk around the countryside. I’ve hardly seen any of it.”

  “Time to cool off a bit, eh?”

  “It wasn’t that bad.” She pressed her lips together, chin quivering. “I didn’t like what he was asking me about Uncle Mason.”

  Drew’s eyes narrowed. “What was he asking?”

  “If he and Aunt Constance had been quarreling. If I saw him talking to Lincoln anywhere around the greenhouse or the garden shed.”

  “Hmmm. Nothing too unusual.”

  “He asked about you, too,” she added.

  “I see. But that didn’t bother you?”

  “Oh, that’s all right, Drew,” Nick said. “He probably doesn’t think you’re clever enough to plan a murder, anyway.”

  “Nick, old man, your confidence in me is most gratifying. Come along, Madeline.” Drew patted the hand that rested on his arm. “I think a bit of fresh air is well indicated for both of us.” He led her toward the French doors that opened onto the garden, and then he stopped. “I say, Nick? You may want to ring up Miss Stokes in personnel for that address we were wondering about.”

  “Right,” Nick said. “Straightaway.”

  Responding to the question in Madeline’s eyes with nothing more than a smile, Drew took her across the rose garden, along a wooded path and out onto the meadow.

  “There aren’t many things I really love,” he said after they had walked awhile, “but I love this place. I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t here for me to come home to.”

  “It’s so beautiful, the mossy stone walls and the sheep and cattle, and everything is so green.” She sighed. “I can understand why you love it. It’s a wonderful place to call home.”

  They walked awhile longer in companionable silence.

  “What else do you really love?” she asked finally.

  He smiled. “You’ll only think me foolish.”

  She tucked her arm under his and looked up into his eyes. “Tell me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve a friend or two I love, I suppose.”

  “Nick?”

  “Nick’s stuck with me through a lot, especially these past ten or fifteen years,” Drew said. “And Denny’s taken me in, more or less, since my father died. By rights, I should have my own valet, just as your uncle does. But Denny’s looked after me so long, I can’t imagine having anyone else. I fairly much see to myself most of the time, anyway. Much simpler that way, even if it is a local scandal. Now, don’t laugh. You’d have to have a personal maid too if you were to live here. I mean, lady of the manor and all.”

  She squeezed his hand. “You’re sweet. Not the least bit subtle, but very sweet.”

  They reached the top of a rise in the road, and Madeline pointed down toward the village. “Is that Farthering St. John?”

  “In all her glory.”

  “How perfect,” she sighed, and then she turned to him, beaming. “How wonderfully perfect.”

  “Is it?”

  He looked over the village again, trying to see with new eyes something he’d seen practically every day of his life. There wasn’t much to it really—a few rows of houses on the main road, some better kept than others, some shops, a garage, a chemist, and a minuscule police station nearly large enough for the two officers typically on duty there. It was home, of course, and dear to his heart, but he knew too that there was nothing there over which the average person should marvel. Then again, Madeline came from a country that boasted little more than three hundred years of civilized history. He’d have to make allowances.

  “Yes. Absolutely perfect,” she said. “Look at the sweet little gardens they all have. And what a lovely old church.”

  “That’s Holy Trinity. Actually, it’s The Church of the Holy Trinity and All Angels, if you want its full title. It’s mostly Norman still, but you can see a little of the Georgian and Victorian, too. Not enough to spoil it, though.”

  “I hope you’ll take me there sometime.”

  “I expect we’ll all be going there soon enough.”

  “Oh.” She looked a bit flustered. “Oh yes, of course.”

  He hated to remind her of that, of the funeral and what had led up to it. He hated to remind himself, but there it was.

  “Look here,” he said, taking her face in both his hands so he could look into her clear periwinkle eyes. “I don’t want you to worry about all this. Just—” His voice caught. What was it about her that made him so quickly feel he could trust her? “Just stay close.”

  She melted into his arms, soft and warm, yet strong and lithe and altogether right. He stood there just holding her, being held by her. With his cheek against her fragrant hair and her head nestled on his shoulder, he pressed her close, letting some of the tightness in his lungs disperse into the grass-scented air.

  After a time, he turned her face up to him again.

  “Look here,” he repeated, making his expression stern. “I don’t want you to think I’m always such a ninny as this.”

  He loved the understanding warmth in her eyes and the little tremor in her smile. Maybe what he felt was too new and untried to be real, but the fresh possibility of it was a sweet, dizzying d
istraction from all the unpleasantness of the last few hours.

  “It won’t do to get off track at this point,” he said. “I mean to find out what’s happened here. To Lincoln and to Constance. After that, we can carry on learning how perfect we are for each other.”

  “Do you know what I like best about you?” she asked, taking his hand and swinging it between them in a lazy arc as they began walking back toward the house. “You’re so shy and unsure of yourself.”

  He smiled in spite of himself and held her hand more tightly. It was insane, but it was the most wonderful, intoxicating insanity he’d ever felt.

  “You don’t . . . you don’t have someone waiting for you, do you? I mean, somewhere in the wilds of America?”

  Her only answer was a careless shrug. Maddening.

  He stood still where he was, forcing her to stop alongside him. “Well, do you or don’t you?”

  She grinned. “Nobody.”

  “No?”

  “Absolutely no one.” She nestled close to him. “And if I did, I don’t think I’d want it to be anyone but you.”

  She lowered her lashes and then looked up again, coy and challenging, and he pulled her even closer. He could feel her heartbeat and the rapid catches of her breath as he held her against him. Or was that his own heart and breath? No, he wouldn’t kiss her. Now was hardly the time to fall in love. There were serious matters to be seen to. Still, he let himself drink in the moment just awhile longer. Then he released her.

  “We ought to be getting back, I expect. Mrs. Devon will be waiting tea.”

  “All right.”

  He offered her his arm again and then spun her back toward him. “Look here.”

  That same coy look was on her face. And blast it if there wasn’t a knowing little smirk keeping it company.

  “Look here,” he said again. “I said we ought to go back, and I meant just that. I can’t waste all my time swanning about with strange girls, no matter how perfectly charming they may be. Now mind.”

  She shook her head. “You’re wonderful. I’ve never been scolded in such a complimentary way. And I promise I won’t waste any more of your time.” She backed toward the house, pulling him by both hands and still smiling up at him. “Hurry. We don’t want to keep Mrs. Devon waiting.”

  “Hold on. Hold on.” He pulled back the other way. “I absolutely demand that you waste some of my time. At least a little of it.”

  “I don’t plan for the time we spend together to be wasted at all. I’m going to help you solve this case.”

  She leaned up and kissed his cheek, then turned and scampered into the house.

  What could he do but dash after her?

  Eight

  Drew and his stepfather were sharing the newspaper the next morning over an early breakfast when Denny came out onto the terrace.

  “Chief Inspector Birdsong to see you, sir.”

  Mason looked up from the financial section. “Show him into my study, Dennison. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “I’d rather we talked right here, Mr. Parker,” Birdsong said as he strode out to them. “You and Mr. Farthering will want to hear what I’ve found out.”

  Drew straightened in his chair and abandoned the society page. “I daresay we will. Do take a seat, Inspector. Would you care for some breakfast? Tea?”

  Denny relieved the inspector of his hat and returned to the house, discreetly closing the terrace doors behind him.

  Birdsong accepted a cup of tea and sat down. “I’ve just spoken to Dr. Wallace. He’s completed the autopsy on Mrs. Parker.”

  He leaned forward to peer at Mason.

  “Yes?” Mason prompted.

  “He found traces of Veronol in the bottle we took from Mrs. Parker’s bedside table.”

  Mason nodded. “Yes. And?”

  “There was Veronol in your wife’s body as well, but not enough to kill her.”

  “What?”

  Mason looked helplessly at Drew.

  “Then what did kill her?” Drew asked.

  “Wallace isn’t certain,” Birdsong said. “All he can say is that something made her stop breathing.”

  “But wouldn’t the Veronol account for that?”

  “Not according to the doctor. He said what she had taken could have done no more than put her into a deep sleep. Different folk react in different ways, of course, but you said she’d taken this many times before.”

  “Yes,” Mason breathed.

  “And never had a problem?” Birdsong pressed.

  “No.”

  Drew narrowed his eyes. “She couldn’t have just had some natural breathing difficulty, could she?”

  “Not according to Dr. Wallace.”

  “And there was nothing else in her system?”

  “A little alcohol. I understand you brought her that, didn’t you?”

  “I brought her one drink, yes. She sent me for it.”

  “I see.”

  “I have no idea what else she drank that night. I somehow doubt that stinger was the only one she’d had.”

  Birdsong’s expression remained bland, benignly attentive. “Did you happen to notice what she had that night, Mr. Parker?”

  “No. I was mostly in my study, though. I couldn’t say for certain what she drank. She liked a drink now and again, no denying that, but she was never vulgar about it.”

  “No, sir. Of course not. I’m sorry to have disturbed you so early. Dr. Wallace has released the body. Marks & Blackistone’s will see to everything for you now. I hope that meets with your approval.”

  Mason sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Very kind of you, Inspector, I’m sure.”

  An hour later, when Mason had long since shut himself up in his study and Drew was still mulling over recent events and tea, Nick came and sat down at the table with a plate of eggs and toast.

  “Morning, old man. How are things today?”

  Drew smiled, only half listening. “Tolerable, I suppose.”

  “I heard old Birdsong was in again. Any news?”

  “Dr. Wallace has done with the autopsy on Constance and released the body. I expect we’ll have the funeral tomorrow.”

  “Anything I can take care of for you?”

  “I’ll talk to Mason about what he wants. I’m sure there are all sorts of arrangements to be made, but I don’t know what they are yet.”

  “What did the doctor find?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “He doesn’t know what caused her death?” Nick asked.

  “No, except that she stopped breathing. And, yes, I know Father Knox says there aren’t supposed to be any unknown poisons in the case.”

  Nick put down his fork. “Really, Drew, I wouldn’t have dreamed of mentioning it, you know. I try to not always be an idiot.”

  “I know, old man. It’s a deuced puzzle, though. And hang me if I know where this piece fits. Or if it even goes into the same puzzle as the rest. Still, something killed her, and it wasn’t the Veronol. And there were no other drugs found nearby. Nothing peculiar in her bloodstream, either. I’d say that pretty much puts the suicide theory to bed.”

  “And she hadn’t had any tea or anything to eat before she slept?”

  “Not according to Beryl. She sometimes would have some chamomile of an evening, but she didn’t that night. Nothing anyone knows of after that stinger I brought her at the party. And I made that myself.”

  “I suppose Birdsong was on you about that.”

  “Not as such, no, but I could hear his little brain ticking along behind that beetle brow.”

  “Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it but for us to figure out what’s been going on.”

  “Yes, and we’ll have a bit of company, as well.”

  “Company?”

  “The charming Miss Parker has announced her intention of joining the investigation.”

  Nick’s face lit. “Has she? Oh, jolly nice.”

  Drew scowled. “No, it is not jolly nice. I shall never find out a
nything if she’s along.”

  “Be fair. She doesn’t seem the sort of girl to be squeamish or go chattering on about hats or operas or anything.”

  Drew stared into his cup. “It’s not that.”

  “What then?”

  “It’s . . . well, it’s just not the type of thing a girl ought to be involved in. Man’s work and all.”

  Nick laughed. “You can’t fool me, you know.”

  “What?” Drew protested.

  “You just don’t want to be distracted.”

  Drew put his head in his hands. “Is it that obvious?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “How can I concentrate on this case when she’s all I can think of? When one pert look turns my spine to blackberry jam?”

  “Blackberry?”

  Drew looked up. “Oh, yes, I’m certain it’s blackberry. I don’t like blackberry.”

  “She is most awfully pretty.”

  “Yes, and knows it, worse luck, but I’ve been around beautiful girls before. Remember Elsie Martinson?”

  “Do I remember Elsie. You had it bad, and I thought Bunny was going to blow his brains out over her.”

  “When he could remember her name was Elsie and not Eleanor or Myrtle.” Drew shook his head. “Poor Bunny. Good thing he got distracted by that new Lagonda he bought right after. But Elsie was a stunner, no question. Still, it was hard to stay keen on her once you’d known her awhile. She liked to pull the wings off fellows just to amuse herself. I shouldn’t be surprised to find she had a complete set of old beaux in a glass case, pinned through the heart onto corkboard and properly labeled as to date and place collected.”

  “Bah. Miss Parker’s nothing like that.”

  “I know. That’s precisely what makes it so hard for me to keep my mind on the task at hand.”

  Nick snickered. “I have a feeling that if she wants in on the game, she’ll be in on the game.”

  Drew groaned and buried his head in his hands once more.

  The day of the funeral was clear and warm, a fresh June day with no hint of rain.

  Standing at the graveside, surrounded by black-clad mourners, Drew listened to the vicar’s words—God’s words, he’d always been taught—and wondered if Constance was standing before Him now. Or, having hardly given Him a thought during her life, was she forever separated from His presence?