by Marni Graff
Nora frowned. “If we’d been on a good note when Paul died, it would be a no-brainer. But considering we were hardly speaking and headed for a breakup, it would be tough for me. I’ve got a list to go through and more pages in my book to browse.” Nora stopped to catch her breath and take a few shots of the rising land and the lake behind her, busy with cruising steamers, ferries, private boats and a few canoes. At this distance, it looked picturesque and quaint, like a guidebook picture. Puffy, cotton-candy clouds reflected on the water’s surface without any reminder of yesterday’s horror.
Nora put her camera away. “It looks so—innocent,” she said.
Kate linked her free arm through Nora’s and turned her away from the shimmering water. “It usually is,” she murmured.
*
10:45 AM
Simon lingered in the dining room long after breakfast was cleaned up, enjoying a late cup of coffee with the owners of Lindisfarne House in neighboring Windermere. The three compared notes on the uneven tourist season, a result of the slowed economy. Simon was grateful they didn’t want to gossip about Keith’s death.
He needed this moment’s respite from the mess surrounding the death of Keith Clarendon. Yesterday had passed in a blur, and he needed to steady himself. The couple was getting up to leave when Simon glanced at the main hall entrance to the dining room and saw Ian standing in the archway. Simon saw his guests to the door of the lodge and turned back to greet Ian.
“Ian, Kate’s not here right now. I don’t expect her back for a bit—was she expecting you? Wedding plans to nail down?”
“If that sister of yours would settle on a date for the ceremony, we could actually make some.” The lanky detective strode across the dining room, motioning to Simon to follow him. “Could we talk in your rooms, please?” He crossed the hall to Simon’s door without waiting for a response.
Once inside the main room, Simon sat down and indicated Ian should do the same. Ian continued to stand.
“Simon, I believe you have in your possession a plant from Sommer Clarendon’s collection?”
“Yes, I borrowed it to use in a painting. It’s in my studio.”
“I’m afraid I’ll need to search and secure your studio and take that plant into evidence.” Ian sighed. “And you’ll need to come to Kendal station and make a formal statement.”
“What?” Simon stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. “What’s going on, Ian?”
Ian righted Simon’s chair. “Sit down, Simon. Milo sent Keith’s gastric contents to be analyzed on high priority. He believes Keith may have ingested a high dose of a glycoside that fits the cardiac failure he found. He found among the gastric contents the seeds of a rare plant—” Ian consulted his notes, “—called Tanghinia that can act as both a respiratory and a cardiac poison.” He met Simon’s eyes. “It’s native to areas like the Seychelles or Madagascar. Around Cumbria, there are only two known specimens: the one still at Clarendon Hall and the one in your studio.”
Simon sat down heavily. “This is absurd!”
“Maybe so.” Ian shifted his weight and stuffed his notebook back in his jacket. “I’ve sent a tech to collect the one from Clarendon Hall, too. But unless he committed suicide, and this would be a decidedly unpleasant way to do that, Keith was murdered.”
The full impact of Ian’s words hit him. “And I’m a suspect.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property so that they may more perfectly respect it.”
— G. K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday
10:48 AM
Val Rogan followed a shopper leaving the busy Westgate Shopping Centre in Oxford and slid her Escort into the spot as soon as the woman vacated it. She locked up and crossed Norfolk Street, wondering if the threatening sky would unleash a shower. The street was full of Saturday shoppers about their business and many of them carried umbrellas. Her destination was the Worth Travel Agency.
Since Nora’s help had cleared her of Bryn’s murder, Val would do anything to aid her American friend. Today, she planned to browse the travel agency artlessly and gather as much information as she could about Keith Clarendon from his coworkers. Nice job he’d had, she thought, splitting his time between Oxford and Bowness. There was sure to be gossip as news of his death spread, and Val was very good at chatting up clerks.
Val had dressed in what she called her “Virgin Mary” outfit: a simple blue cardigan that hid the elaborate embroidery she’d done on the back of her white shirt and a long denim skirt. She wore comfortable flats and had removed all but one set of earrings, which today were pearl studs. She wanted to look like a single gal out for a bit of weekend window-shopping and dreaming of a trip to Turkey, the Brits’ latest vacation hot spot. Down the block, police lights caught her attention, bringing back with sudden clarity the moment she’d been told her beloved Bryn was dead. Val’s heart turned over with the memory; it was a loss she was still getting used to and over which she continued to grieve.
Shaking off the emotional pain, she reached the address she wanted and squared her shoulders. The lights she’d seen bouncing off the buildings belonged to police cars drawn up in front of the office. A cluster of people gathered around the entrance to the Worth Travel Agency. It’s always Worth your while with us! proclaimed a banner above the storefront’s entrance.
Val poked her way to the front of the crowd in time to see a constable taping up a hole in the agency’s large glass door, which stood propped open. Peering inside, Val could see an elderly man talking with a note-taking constable.
Suddenly, a slim, well-dressed young man brushed Val roughly aside and strode into the office. Val slid closer to the open doorway so she could hear the conversation inside.
“My God, Edgar, are you all right? What’s happened here?” The young man looked distressed as he scanned the overturned racks of brochures, their contents strewn across the floor. Filing cabinets and desk drawers gaped open.
“I found it like this when I responded to the alarm company’s call—I’m fine,” the older man said, but his face was flushed, and his hands shook.
“And you are?” the constable asked the young man in a nasal voice.
“Glenn Hackney, office manager. What’s going on? And please, can’t Mr. Worth sit down before he falls over?” He righted a chair and pulled it toward the owner, who gratefully slid into it.
“It would appear to be a robbery of sorts, sir,” the constable answered with a smirk. He turned to a clean page in his notebook. “How did you hear about this, Mr. Hackney?”
The office manager delicately picked his way through the debris as he took in the extensive mess. “The alarm company automatically calls me and Mr. Worth whenever it’s triggered,” he answered with impatience.
The constable scribbled a note, then looked inquiringly at Edgar Worth. “Do you routinely keep large amounts of receipts in the office, Mr. Worth?”
The older man shook his head as Glenn answered for him. “Not really. There’s petty cash, but either Mr. Worth or I make a bank drop of the day’s cash and checks every night after closing.”
The constable nodded and looked up, noticing Val at the front of the eavesdropping crowd. He motioned to the other bobby, who walked over and shut the agency’s door firmly in her face.
Chapter Eighteen
“You are here invited to read the story of an Event which occurred in an out-of-the-way corner of England, some years since.”
— Wilkie Collins, Poor Miss Finch
10:50 AM
Clarendon Hall came into view as the road took a steeper angle upward. Kate and Nora stopped between two square stone columns at the entrance to the paved drive, lined on each side with aged horse chestnut trees. Discreet brass plaques re
ad Clarendon Hall on the left and Estab. 1616 on the right. The notation on the right caught Nora’s attention. “1616—that’s the year Shakespeare died,” she noted.
Kate guided Nora through the ornate iron gates. “It’s a source of local pride to announce the Bard of Avon slept here on a visit before his death, but I suspect someone from Cumbria Tourism thought of that one years ago.”
They stopped halfway up the drive for Nora to take in the view of the heavily planted grounds. Nora could see the gardens were dotted with dry fountains and cotoneaster bushes sprinkled with red berries, but most of the shrubs were asleep for the season.
The stone mansion was impressive, with a large portico shielding the massive entry door. Its wings spread out on either side, framed by low privet hedges, and its upper story was stepped back from the front lower-level rooms, giving the ground floor a soaring, peaked ceiling on the anterior half of the residence. Heavy drapes at the long windows in the right wing were pulled open. Sheer panels provided privacy but let light in and allowed a view of the lake.
“We’ll go around back and see Cook first, so I can leave this basket,” Kate suggested.
The drive swung around to the back of the mansion. The curtains at the windows were still; a purple bow hung from a plain, green wreath on the front door.
“In Victorian times, hay would be thrown in front of a house in mourning to stifle the sounds from the horses in the road, and all of the blinds would be drawn to shut out the sunlight,” Kate said.
“Is that your favorite period?” Nora asked.
“That and Edwardian, probably. In my work, I had to become familiar with all different eras. I love the history behind things. That’s why I enjoy refinishing old furniture—it’s the sense of what came before that I like.” She gave Nora a smile. “Even if running the lodge doesn’t always allow me as much time for it as I’d like.”
The pair reached a small kitchen garden planted with herbs, zinnias and cosmos. Kate twisted a brass knob set next to the door, and a bell could be heard tinkling inside.
A sturdy woman wearing a spotless apron over her plain housedress opened the door. The apron matched the white of her hair, which she smoothed in a nervous gesture until she recognized her caller, and then her round face broke into a beaming welcome.
“Well, now, it’s Kate come to the back door, just like in the old days. Come in, my dear, it’s so good to see you.”
“Cook, this is my friend Nora Tierney. She knew Keith from the travel agency.”
A shadow passed over Cook’s face as she ushered the women into a huge kitchen, complete with a four-oven, green Aga range. Worn but immaculate cabinets were painted white and set with arched, leaded-glass doors. Green tiles lining the countertops continued onto the backsplash, with Arts and Crafts–patterned ceramic tiles scattered here and there, giving the feel of handfuls of wildflowers scattered about. One part of the counter had a huge piece of marble inlaid on one end and a chopping block on the other.
The sweet, floury scent of scones baking filled the room, and a tray set with a tea service stood on a rolling cart near the door to the hallway. Cook led them to ladder-back chairs at the long kitchen table, and Nora sat down, happy to rest after her walk.
Kate lifted the towel from her basket and withdrew a shiny plum tart and a smaller version of the same delicacy that she set on the table.
“From Agnes, for the house and for you, with her love,” Kate said.
“That Agnes always remembers me, and Mr. Sommer’s favorite is plum. Please thank her for me.” Cook clucked appreciatively as she sat opposite them. “Miss Antonia asked me to prepare tea and scones for you once you called this morning, so I won’t offer you a cuppa right now. But let me see your engagement ring, dear. Very nice for you, Kate.”
Kate held out her left hand where a platinum Art Deco ring sparkled, its center diamond graced with sapphire baguettes. “It was Ian’s granny’s,” she explained.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Cook asked Nora.
“Beautiful,” Nora agreed, pleased Cook accepted her presence so easily. She was less sure of the reception Keith’s parents would give her. As if in response to her anxiety, her stomach hardened into a tight ball. She massaged it gently until it passed.
“How are the Clarendons doing, Cook?” Kate asked.
Cook leaned across the table and lowered her voice. Nora caught a whiff of rose as the woman answered. “My poor nephew Billy had to deliver the news.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how he does it. Miss Antonia, she didn’t believe him at first and ran upstairs to check Keith’s bedroom. Mr. Sommer, his face got all white, and I was afraid he was going to pass out—it was just awful. Billy said this American lady staying with you found him by the lake … ” Her voice trailed off as she looked to Nora, who nodded.
“That would be me,” Nora confirmed, to Cook’s grimace.
“Not a nice thing to come across, I’m sure. Then Miss Antonia came running back into the room, and her shouting brought Gillian down, but not before the poor woman had thrown all her Dresden figurines to the floor. They were special to her,” she added for Nora’s information. “She and poor Miss Julia collected them together. By the time I reached her, she was chucking the very last one, and then she burst into the most heartrending cries you ever heard and threw her arms around my neck.” Cook blinked back tears at the memory. “It was a sight, let me tell you.” She unfolded a flowered hanky from her apron pocket and mopped her forehead.
Kate reached across the table and patted her hand. “I’m sure it was hard for everyone to absorb.”
Cook nodded in agreement. “I finally got her to come in here and made her sit down where you are while I made her tea with a shot of brandy. And Mr. Sommer called in the tour guide and canceled the tours. Gillian sat with her so I could clean up the mess, and then Doc Lattimore arrived—Billy had called him before he even came here. And the doc, he left some pills Mr. Sommer got Miss Antonia to take. She’s been in a daze since.”
Cook ended her narration and sat back in her chair, exhausted. Nora had the feeling it was a story she would repeat over and over in the coming days to anyone who might ask.
Chapter Nineteen
“With a little bit of luck, when temptation comes you’ll give right in!”
— Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe, My Fair Lady
11:15 AM
Simon threw down his pencil in frustration after checking the totaled receipts on the long slip of paper that fell from the adding machine. It still didn’t match what he had in the cash drawer, but it was off by such a small amount, he thought perhaps Maeve had given the wrong change. He hated to think one of their staff would steal from them. He would speak to Kate about counseling the waitresses again. She had a firm, no-nonsense approach when dealing with the staff. He preferred taking on the nonadversarial roles, as he too often fell for the solemn promises of the young women with their batting eyelashes.
He was distinctly uncomfortable, banished from his own rooms while a forensic tech from Ian’s team collected the Tanghinia plant he’d borrowed from Sommer Clarendon. There was no telling if they were being careful with his paintings or with his supplies. He shuddered to think about what was happening to his haven and just hoped there wouldn’t be a mess to clean up—let alone the mess there would be if Ian persisted in pursuing him as a suspect.
Ian had suggested he do paperwork, which Simon knew translated to keeping himself out of their way. He still had to give his formal statement about when he’d borrowed the plant and how long it had been in his possession. He didn’t care at all for the feeling of being scrutinized in connection with Keith Clarendon’s death.
Bloody Keith. Just like him to continue to irritate Simon from his watery grave. Simon mentally pinched himself and stood up behind the desk. What was
he thinking? Keith was dead—and probably had died in a horrific manner, from what Ian had said, and here Simon was blaming a dead man for his own discomfort.
He thought back to their disagreements over Keith’s plans for expansion. The pub argument that had escalated to a minor fistfight was unusual for Simon; he’d never been in a physical confrontation before. That night, he’d had a few too many pints after the town meeting, not his usual standard at all, and it had been easy to rise to Keith’s arrogant baiting, especially once he had started harping on Kate, coming on to her in his stupor.
The fight had been bad enough at the time. He never thought it would have repercussions, but he knew how it now must make him look in the eyes of the police. Simon tried to shake it off. Ian would sort it all out. In the meantime, he would try to be as cooperative in investigating Keith’s death as the men had been confrontational in life.
Locking the receipt box in the desk, Simon leaned back in his chair and picked up his sketchbook. He was refining the cover for Nora’s next book, and the image would highlight Daria, the head fairy. He had drawn her exhibiting regal grace, with long, red tresses and a crown of bluebells. Nora had not commented on Daria’s likeness to herself in the first book’s illustrations, but with this larger drawing, it would be difficult for Nora not to notice. If she objected, Simon was prepared to point out that she was the author and was therefore entitled to have the main character resemble her own visage.