“It makes a difference. Perhaps not to the whole world, but to those you can help it makes a world of difference.”
Beaky shook his head, studying one of the envelopes. “Even an insane asylum.”
Drew’s eyebrows went up. “You got one from an asylum? Poor devils. What’s it say?”
“Evidently Uncle Hubert had been supporting them and all these other places, too. This one wants to know if I would consider carrying on.”
“Nearby?”
Beaky looked at the return address on the envelope. “Someplace in Norfolk. It’s the farthest afield of the lot.”
“You ought to look into it before you send any of them anything.”
Beaky nodded. “I’ll see what Rogers has to say about it. He’s managed the finances at the Lodge since before the war. If Uncle really did send these places money every year, then they’re all right.”
“Good idea. But I was rather hoping you might want to take a breather from all that. What do you say to the two of us having a talk with the vicar’s housekeeper. Mrs. . . . ?”
Before Beaky could supply the name, the telephone rang. Beaky glanced toward the study door, and a moment later Halford appeared.
“Telephone for you, sir. Mr. Treadwell from the bank.”
Beaky excused himself and picked up the telephone on the desk. “Mr. Treadwell, good morning.”
Drew started to leave the room to give the man some privacy, but Beaky shook his head and held up one finger, indicating he didn’t expect the call to take long.
Drew studied the room while he waited, only half hearing Beaky talking about additional funds needed for making the north wing habitable. Uncle Hubert’s study was probably little changed from when he had left it. The wallpaper was old, a cream-colored print that had aged to a nondescript tan, darkened still more by smoke from the fireplace and from the collection of pipes that was still in the stand on the desk.
On the bookcase was a photograph of what Drew assumed was the old boy himself, a jolly-looking fellow of portly middle age with a great walrus mustache and pince-nez eyeglasses and what looked to be the flaming red hair of the Bloodworths. Further over was another photograph, this one much older, of three boys in Eton jackets, the two eldest standing behind the youngest, who sat on an iron bench with his top hat in his lap and his large light-colored eyes fixed on something far off.
The oldest of these boys was Uncle Hubert, though the mustache and spectacles on the more recent picture had made Drew skeptical at first. The middle boy was undeniably Beaky’s father, as tall and gawky as Beaky had been at that age and possessed of the same memorable nose. The third boy must be another brother, judging by the resemblance between the three, although this younger one’s hair looked fair, his nose more in proportion with the rest of him. Drew smiled thinking how little Eton had changed in the past forty years. If it hadn’t been for the age of the photograph itself, he could have well believed these boys were from his own days there or even from the present.
“A motley crew, eh?” Beaky said as he rang off. “My old governor, Uncle Hubert and Uncle Sylvester. Eton men, brave and true.”
“I didn’t know you had another uncle.” Drew squinted at the faded photograph. “Do you stay in touch?”
“I’m afraid not. He was killed in Amiens in ’18.” He pointed Drew over to a photograph of a young man in uniform, the same man from the Eton picture but a bit older, a man with a firm chin, gentle mouth, and light-colored eyes. The Victoria Cross hung on a ribbon over the corner of the picture frame. “I don’t remember him much.”
“Pity. I remember my father doing some work for the Home Office during the war. I was always afraid he’d be called to France or some other horrid place to fight, but he never was.”
Beaky nodded. “I thought my father would go too, but he was getting a bit past the age by then and had a dodgy ticker. And Uncle Hubert was too old, too. They both did their war work here at home.” He bit his lip. “I remember feeling very wicked indeed when I was glad it was Uncle Vester who was killed and not Father.”
“Perfectly understandable for a boy of nine.”
“The sad bit is that he was a capital fellow and I worshiped him. He’d play cricket with me—well, a sort of cricket we made up between us—when he was home, and he told the best bedtime stories, not just with funny voices but acting them out and everything.” Beaky touched a finger to the photograph, smiling faintly. “My mother used to scold him for it, saying they were more likely to keep me awake than put me to sleep at night. I felt a perfect beast being glad he was dead.”
“Be fair,” Drew said. “It’s not as though you were actually glad of it, were you? That’s a different thing entirely from just not wanting to lose your own father.”
“It took me a while to see that,” Beaky admitted. “Funny how one can feel two entirely opposite ways about the same thing at the same time.”
“We’re funny creatures.” Drew clapped him on the shoulder, not wanting to revisit a particularly repugnant time in his own past when he, too, had felt that way, unwilling to dredge up Fleur again. “But I think we can agree that there is nothing good about the murder of your vicar and that his killer ought not to get away with it, eh?”
“Oh, certainly. Right. You were asking about Mrs. Tansy.”
“The housekeeper, yes.”
“That’s right. Shall we go round and see her?”
Five
The Tansy residence was an indifferent little row house on an indifferent little street. There was no answer to Drew’s knock. According to the woman at the house next door but one, Mrs. Tansy had gone off to stay with her sister, being that upset about Mr. Miles’s murder. The woman did not have the sister’s name or address.
“Well, that’s a bust,” Drew said, scowling at the door that had just been closed on him.
“I expect the police got a full report before Mrs. Tansy was allowed to leave the area. I doubt she knows more about the murder than I do. Or you now, for that matter.”
“I suppose so. I’ve just found that people often remember more than they think they do if one asks the right questions.”
“Sorry, old man.” Beaky thought for a moment, and then his expression brightened. “We could go round to the police station and ask to see her statement. Trenton won’t mind.”
While Trenton was extremely helpful, the statement itself was not. Mrs. Tansy had left the vicar eating soup before his fire, just as Beaky had said, and knew nothing more of the matter.
“What now?” Beaky asked.
Drew looked at his watch. “What do you say to a bit of lunch at the pub? Madeline said she and your missus wouldn’t be back at the Lodge before tea.”
“Ah, yes. I expect they’ll be at Milbury’s. Shall we see if we can catch them up? Or would you prefer the pub?”
“The pub, I think. Some of these tea rooms are too ladylike for my taste. I like to know I’ve had lunch once I’ve actually had it.”
Beaky chuckled. “The Hound and Hart, then. Straight this way.”
They left the car where it was and walked from the police station down the high street toward the pub. Halfway on, Beaky stopped to buy a newspaper as Drew walked a few feet ahead, stopping to admire an Alfa Romeo roadster, a fire-engine-red two-seater parked in front of the post office. She was flashier than he typically cared for, but she was a sweet-looking machine for all that. He leaned closer, admiring the automobile’s sleekness, imagining racing it full throttle up the road toward—
“A bit of all right, isn’t she?”
Drew started and turned at the deep voice. “Sorry. I was just having a look. Is she yours?”
“I suppose, being asked, it’s not bragging. Yes, she’s mine. Isn’t she a stunner?”
The man was fortyish, not very tall, rather thin and pale. Bookish. Nothing like his voice. And if this was his car, he must be rather well off.
“Morris Gray, I take it.”
The man blinked once behind his gl
asses, and then a smile brightened his face as he shook the hand Drew offered. “Why, yes. How’d you know? Someone told you this was my car, did he?”
“Actually, I reckon one would need quite a bit of ready cash to afford a motor car like this one, and I knew you weren’t a Bloodworth. That leaves only the people at Westings. You are obviously too young to be Mr. Carter Gray, but I would imagine just the right age to be his son. Ipso facto, you are Mr. Morris Gray of Westings, Bunting’s Nest, Yorkshire.”
“Then I would venture to say you’re the London detective Bloodworth has staying up at the Lodge.”
“Drew Farthering, yes. But I come from Hampshire, not London. And I have come up to have a look about, if only in an unofficial capacity.”
Gray nodded. “Then you did come to see about the vicar. I told her that was why.”
“Her?”
“Oh, my wife, of course. My wife. Awful thing to happen, the vicar. Nice chap.”
“So I’ve heard,” Drew said. “You don’t have any theories, do you?”
“None, I’m afraid. Not that we’re a hotbed of iniquity here, but if anyone in Bunting’s Nest was to be murdered, he would be the last one I’d peg.”
“Rather a shock in a nice quiet village, eh?”
Gray’s face clouded. “Beastly hole, if you ask me. Miserable winters.”
“I suppose it’s a treat in January, eh?”
“It is that.” Gray smiled abruptly. “Have you ever been to Nice? Or Venice? Or even Guatemala?”
“Not quite so far as Guatemala, but I’ve been to the others.”
“Glorious places, aren’t they?” A wistful longing came to the older man’s eyes. “Drenched in warm light and beauty.”
“Lovely places. I went a couple of years ago on my honeymoon.”
Gray sighed. “My wife and I went to Brighton.”
“Oh . . . well, I’m sure it was very nice.”
“Frances said it was practical.”
“I thought you and the Alfa Romeo would meet up in time.” Beaky walked up to them. “Good afternoon, Gray. Good to see you.”
“Bloodworth. Just having a chat with your detective here.”
The neighbors shook hands.
“We have yet to make any brilliant deductions,” Drew said. “But if neither of you is in a particular hurry, I’d very much like to know a bit more about recent goings-on.”
“No hurry,” Gray said. Then he looked at the sullen sky and pulled his collar up closer to his ears. “But someplace a bit cozier, eh? Come along, then.”
Beaky and Drew followed him down the street to a low brick building, the sign swinging above it bearing the image of a dog and a stag in fine medieval style. As they approached the entrance, the door opened and a trio of laboring men spilled out into the street. A fourth, shabbier than the other three, stepped inside as they left, coughing out a hoarse apology when he stumbled against Drew and then hurried over to a group of roughs gathered at a table near the pub’s dart board.
“We seem to have idlers from everywhere these days,” Gray said as he led them to the back of the room. “Scots. Welshmen. Heaven help us, the Irish. Afternoon, Williams.”
“Mr. Gray, sir,” the barman called back. “Gentlemen. Won’t be half a moment.”
“Good old Hound and Hart,” Gray said, finding them a table as near the fire as possible and then shifting his own chair even closer. “If nothing else, Mr. Farthering, you can count on Williams here to look after you.”
It was a good time of day to come. The men had had their dinner and mostly gone back to their work. It was too early for the evening crowd. Just a few old duffers with their pipes and checkers and no trouble. They ordered shepherd’s pie, and afterward Gray leaned forward, arms on the table, fingers tented in front of him.
“I suppose Bloodworth’s told you about the . . . difficulties between his family and mine.”
“Only a bit,” Drew said. “Perhaps you ought to tell your side of it.”
“My side?” Gray chuckled. “I don’t have a side. I think it’s all perfect rot. Two grown men acting like absolute infants over nothing? Ridiculous.”
“I don’t suppose it was nothing to them,” Drew said, “or to your mother.”
“Mother, God bless her, wanted no part of any of it. And if she regretted her choice of husband, she made sure no one ever knew it. But that was ages ago. She’s gone now. Old Bloodworth’s gone. My father’s little better than an invalid. I expect I’ll be master of Westings before long, and then who’ll care about the old days?”
“And when the place is yours?” Drew asked.
Gray shook his head. “If I had my way, I’d sell the old barn and be done with it, but Frances would never stand for that. She wants to ‘make something of the place.’”
“She sounds quite industrious.”
“Oh, she is.” Gray smiled into his drink and then drained it in a gulp. “She was never one to go on about da Vinci or Proust, but if the sheep are looking a bit dodgy or the pipes are plugged, she’ll figure out why, you can be sure of that.”
“Rather handy to have about,” Drew said.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Farthering.”
Drew looked up to see Blackstock, the milkman, standing at his elbow, cap in hand. The group of men at the table by the dart board turned to gape at the newcomer and then huddled together again, no doubt gossiping like old women.
“I do beg your pardon, sir. Mr. Bloodworth. Mr. Gray.” Blackstock bobbed his head at each of them in turn, squinting in the low light. “Don’t want to interrupt, but might I have a private word, Mr. Farthering?”
With a quizzical glance at Beaky, Drew stood and stepped away from the table. “Yes?”
“I wouldn’t want to bother the other gentlemen, sir, and I won’t disturb you but a moment, but I was just wondering if you’d found out any more about our vicar?”
“Not just yet,” Drew replied. “Have you thought of anything else we ought to know?”
“No, sir. Makes me nervous, though, doing my rounds in the early morning with no one about, knowing there’s someone out there not above doing murder. Makes me afraid to go watching my birds of a Sunday afternoon. I go just about everywhere round these parts. Who knows what that I might see something I ought not and have to be put out of the way?”
“I shouldn’t worry, Blackstock. There’s no reason anyone would want to kill you, is there?”
The milkman huffed. “No reason anyone ought do for the vicar either, is there? I ask you, sir.”
“I hope we’ll get this all sorted before there’s any more trouble.” Drew gave the man a sovereign. “Have something to eat. Nothing’s going to happen here in the middle of the day.”
“I suppose not, sir. Thank you.” Blackstock bobbed his head again. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
Drew studied him, considering what he had said about being everywhere and seeing most everything. “No bother at all. I can use a man like you, in point of fact. You’re all over the village. And if you’re a bird watcher, I daresay all over the moor.”
The milkman’s bearded face lit up. “I am that, sir.”
“Just between you and me, keep your eyes open and come see me up at the Lodge if you see anything untoward, eh? I’ll make it worth your while.”
Blackstock held up his hand. “No, sir. Not for money. It’s my duty and no less.”
“Very good of you.”
“Happy to be of service however I’m able, sir,” the milkman replied. He then nodded toward Drew’s table. “Now if you gentlemen will pardon me,” he said, raising his voice, “I see Mr. Williams has your dinner.” He held up the coin Drew had given him. “I’ll drink this to your very good health, Mr. Farthering, sir.”
He ducked around the tray the barman was setting down on the table and took a seat at the far end of the bar with a couple of other men from the village, who welcomed his company.
“Good fellow, Blackstock,” Beaky said once the barman had served th
eir shepherd’s pie, steaming and well-browned on top. “Everything all right?”
“Oh, yes.” Drew sat down and put his napkin in his lap. “He was just wondering if we’d found out anything about the vicar’s death.”
“Must have been quite a shock,” Gray said, looking as if discerning the contents of the shepherd’s pie was of far more interest to him. “Finding a body like that on his morning rounds. Of course, in his trade he must see lots of things the rest of us don’t.”
“Rather interesting,” Beaky said, “if you think about what servants and tradesmen must see and keep to themselves.”
Gray stared at him for a moment before returning to his examination. “Oh, quite. Quite.”
They all tucked in, the companionable silence broken only by the clatter of crockery and the muddle of voices from other conversations. The bunch near the dart board glanced over at them again, nudging each other over something one of them had said, something they obviously found humorous. Drew stopped still, his fork halfway between his plate and his mouth, as they burst into laughter. Beaky’s ruddy complexion was redder than ever now, and Gray evidently couldn’t get his napkin situated in his lap properly.
Drew’s mouth tightened. “I see I’m not the only one who heard that.”
Beaky managed a weak smile. “You’re new in the village. They don’t see many fashionable personalities up here. You can’t expect them not to talk.”
“It’s more than that,” Drew said, his voice low and tight. “If it weren’t, you both wouldn’t look as if you’d swallowed your forks sideways. What have they been saying?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Gray said, glancing covertly at Beaky. “I haven’t been in here in days.”
Drew’s eyes flashed. “Beaky?”
“Let’s not have a scene over it,” Beaky said. “I’ll tell you about it later. Back at the Lodge. But please, not here. You’ll only make it worse.”
“So there is something. About my wife?”
Beaky nodded, turning again to his food. “Don’t make it more of an issue than it is, Drew. Please. It was less than nothing.”
Drew exhaled slowly. “All right. Sorry about that, Gray, and no real harm done, eh?”
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