Nick huffed. “I suppose we couldn’t both make it look authentic?”
“Come now, old man, you wouldn’t want to worry Madeline, would you? And you know it would worry her if I came home looking like . . . well, like you.”
Nick scowled but dropped to his knees in the blackish puddle. He threw his shoulder against the grimy brick wall twice and lightly scraped his knuckles against it for good measure.
“Excellent,” Drew said. “Nothing barbaric. Just a nice discussion, eh?”
“And you fresh as a daisy. You’d better be off. You don’t want anyone from the pub to see you that way.”
“Very true. All right, you keep me informed when you can. Where are you staying in case I need to hunt you up?”
“I’ve taken a garret room at a Mrs. Denton’s in Partridge Row.” Nick looked slyly pleased with himself. “Under the name Selden.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“The house is off Trelawney Lane off the high street. Anyone should be able to direct you. I’m sure she must have somewhere around eighteen to twenty-five children, all of them between the ages of one and twelve.”
Drew laughed. “All right. If I need you, I’ll send a message under the name Stapleton. The more you can find out about this Midgley, the better.”
Nick saluted. “Right-o. Best to the missus.”
“I’ll tell her you’re behaving as well as can be expected.”
Drew gave Nick a swat on the shoulder and then, making sure he wasn’t being observed, hurried out into the dark street. When he got to the corner, he stepped into the shadows and watched as Nick went back inside the Hound and Hart. Then, turning up his collar against the wind that whipped cold over the moor, he walked toward the lights of the Lodge.
“Explain to me how that’s supposed to help?” Madeline demanded. “You said Midgley wasn’t even there.”
“It’s even better that way.” Drew warmed his hands at the bedroom fireplace, then pulled her close and kissed her. “Even if Midgley wasn’t there to see him, word will no doubt get back to him about the enmity between the London toff and the new ruffian in town. It seems much less like a setup this way, don’t you think?”
She sighed. “Oh, I suppose.”
“I don’t like doing this in the first place, not even as a setup.”
“So you’ve said.”
He gave her a stern look. “A lady’s good name—”
“Can be sullied only by the lady herself. Besides, it was my idea in the first place.”
“We should have thought of a better idea,” he grumbled.
“We couldn’t think of a better idea.” She teased his lower lip with her finger, trying to make him smile. “I can’t imagine Nick would say anything outrageously bad anyway.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “It was so mild, I had a hard time being properly incensed when I finally dragged it out of Beaky. And he, poor fellow, was mortified to have to repeat it.”
“Beaky’s a dear. I’m glad you’re looking after him and that you did back in school. Most young boys aren’t that considerate, you know.”
“I’m not in a position to be beatified quite yet,” Drew said, regretting the memory. “Beaky’s a stout fellow, believes the best and all that, but I didn’t set out to champion him right off. In fact, I was the one who started the lads calling him Beaky, and it wasn’t meant as a sign of jolly comradery. Not then at least.”
Madeline pursed her lips. “Not nice, darling.”
“I know. Never tell him, but at the beginning I stood up for him not because I was kind, but because I wanted to devil that swine Tinker and his toady Pomeroy. They were always bullying the younger boys and anyone they thought they could terrorize. They started in on Nick once, as soon as they found out his father was just a butler, but we soon put a stop to that. It became rather a war between us at that point, and I wasn’t about to be bested.”
“I’m sure the other boys were grateful, no matter your motive.”
“I daresay they were, Beaky most of all. And after a time, I grew genuinely fond of him. He’s a good fellow. Good enough to forget our early acquaintance.”
“I’m glad,” Madeline said. “But now what do we do?”
“Now we let young Mr. Dennison do his work behind the scenes while we carry on in the spotlight and see what comes of it all. How are you and Mrs. Beaky getting on?”
“Well enough. She’s definitely one of the smart set. I must seem very naïve to her.”
“I wouldn’t say that, darling. Unspoilt is a better word. Not jaded.” He gave her another brief kiss. “It’s rather attractive.”
She squeezed him tightly and then pulled away. “Well, even if she does think I’m quaint and provincial, I think we’re getting along fine. She’s friendly, though she doesn’t want to talk about herself much.”
“What did the two of you do today?”
“I bought some hideous boots for walking on the moor, and the most delicious yarn. One of the local women spins it and sends it to the shop to sell. I bought all there was.”
He feigned horror. “We’ll have to hire a lorry to haul it all back home.”
“It was only five skeins,” she said, scowling, “and they were very reasonable. The lady at the shop said she should have more in the next day or two.”
“Then we really will need the lorry.”
“Oh, hush, or all you’re getting for Christmas is knitted ties.”
He shuddered. “Pax, darling. Buy all the yarn you want. I suppose Mrs. Bloodworth is a great knitter, as well.”
As he expected, Madeline laughed. “Not at all.”
His smile fading, he sat on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed and let the warmth of the fire seep into his bones. “Do you think she and Beaky get along all right? I mean, truly?”
“You mean do I think she really cares for him?” There was a little pucker between her brows. “It’s hard to say yet. I think we all need to get better acquainted, don’t you?”
“We should be able to do that to great advantage when the Grays come to dinner Thursday.” He pulled her into his lap. “But I’ll leave the lonely-hearts column to you, darling. Just keep your eyes open for clues.”
Thursday evening was drizzly and cold, and the Grays were late for dinner.
“Come in. Come in,” Beaky said when Halford at last showed the couple into the drawing room, and he shook Gray’s hand. “We were beginning to worry.”
“Terribly sorry,” Gray said. “The roads can be tricky in weather like this.”
The woman beside him offered a brittle smile. “I believe the problem is not so much with the roads as it is with someone not coming home to dress until nearly seven o’clock.”
Gray’s mild expression did not change as he shook Drew’s hand. “Good evening, Farthering. Do allow me to introduce my wife, Frances. My dear, this is Mr. and Mrs. Drew Farthering.”
Drew made a slight bow. “A pleasure, Mrs. Gray.”
Madeline took the woman’s hand in both of hers. “So good to meet you, Mrs. Gray, Mr. Gray. Do call me Madeline.”
Mrs. Gray blinked at her. “You’re American, aren’t you? Morris didn’t tell me.”
Madeline gave Mrs. Gray her usual pert grin. “English now. By marriage at least.”
“I always wanted to go to America,” Gray said, his pale eyes wistful. “All that wide open space and so many different things to see. Palm trees and orange groves and—”
“Do spare us the travelogue, Morris,” Mrs. Gray said. “We’re keeping everyone waiting as it is.”
If Gray was pinked by her gibe, he didn’t show it. “I do apologize. Mrs. Bloodworth, I hope everyone’s dinner isn’t spoilt by my thoughtlessness.”
“Of course not, Mr. Gray,” Sabrina said, giving him a dazzling smile as she swept up to them in a gown of red and gold that turned her blond hair to flame. She turned to Mrs. Gray. “It’s very good of both of you to come on such an awful night. Oh, dear, and it l
ooks as if the rain has ruined your dress. I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Gray wore a gown of green silk, exquisitely cut even if it did appear a bit awkward on her angular frame. Startled, she looked down at the lush fabric and then gave Sabrina a pinched smile.
“It’s watered silk.”
“Oh, how silly of me.” Sabrina took her arm, patting it as she did. “Of course, it’s meant to be that way. It’s certainly lovely. Do come and have a cocktail. Beaky, do get something for Mr. Gray and then we’ll go on in.”
Dinner was exquisite, and despite Mrs. Gray’s almost-constant annoyance with her husband, reasonably pleasant. They were in the middle of the fish course when Halford came to stand beside Beaky’s chair.
“Beg pardon, sir, but Miss Patterson is on the telephone for you.”
“That’s very odd,” Beaky said.
Sabrina frowned. “Good heavens, Beaky, this is hardly the time to deal with village matters. Halford, tell her Mr. Bloodworth is entertaining and will ring her in the morning.”
“I have done, madam,” the butler said. “She asks Mr. Bloodworth’s pardon for the imposition and says she wants only a moment of his time.”
“In the morning, Halford.” Sabrina’s tone did not invite further discussion.
“Very good, madam.” The butler bowed and disappeared.
“I hope it’s not urgent,” Madeline said.
Gray glanced at his wife. “Old Miss Patterson? I shouldn’t imagine it is, Mrs. Farthering. Funny she should ring up this late, though, don’t you think, Bloodworth? What in the world could she want?”
“Oh, it’s probably about the drains or something,” Sabrina said.
Madeline gave Beaky a puzzled smile. “Would she call you about drains? Shouldn’t she get a plumber or someone like that?”
“She’s never called me about drains before,” Beaky said, “but I do own the house she’s living in just now. I suppose it could be something of that sort.”
“Cheeky to ring up like that,” Mrs. Gray said, picking at her fish as if it might have gone bad.
“Do let’s talk about something else, Beaky,” Sabrina insisted. “You can see to Miss Patterson tomorrow if you must. It’s hardly something our guests want to hear about, is it?”
“Quite right, darling. Sorry.” Beaky gave her hand a squeeze and earned a faintly annoyed little huff in return.
“Beaky and his people,” Sabrina said to the table at large. “I don’t know what they would do if he didn’t look out for them.”
“They don’t ask much,” Beaky said, his ears growing rather pink, and then he turned to Gray. “Did you ever find out what happened to the things taken from your garage? Drew might want to hear about that as well.”
“Another mystery?” Drew asked.
“I doubt it’s anything to do with what you’re asking after,” Gray said. “Just a few things gone missing. I wouldn’t be surprised if our chauffeur put them up somewhere and forgot where. It’s hardly anything.”
“If someone’s come onto our property and stolen our things, I think that is not hardly anything,” Mrs. Gray said. “They’ll be in the house next and helping themselves to the silver, I shouldn’t wonder. And I swear there’s a bottle of wine missing. Cook was keeping it for a French recipe she was keen to try.”
“That is troubling,” Drew agreed. “Might I ask what all was taken?”
“It was next to nothing,” Gray told him. “Some things we had in the car during the summer and then stored in the garage—blankets, an old lantern, two camp chairs. Not worth much, the lot.”
“It’s not their value that matters,” his wife protested. “It’s that they were taken at all. I don’t like the thought that someone’s been lurking about. What if I were to come upon someone like that when I was alone?”
“I don’t think it’s anyone dangerous, my dear,” Gray said. “We can buy new, if you like. Anyone desperate enough to steal that sort of tat ought to have it, hadn’t he? And Cook probably put that wine somewhere so it wouldn’t accidentally be served, and now she doesn’t remember where.”
Mrs. Gray’s lips were primly tight. “It was those gypsies if you ask me. Can’t open your mouth to tell one of them good morning and not risk your eyeteeth.”
“Be fair, Frances. They only camped on the moor a night or two. They didn’t hurt anything or anyone.”
“Because I told them to clear off. What they would have gotten up to if I hadn’t seen to it, I can’t tell you.” She gave the rest of the table an apologetic smile. “I expect they’d have made themselves at home if Morris had had his way about it. Just give the whole place away and not a look back.” She sniffed. “I don’t know where he’d be if not for me.”
Gray looked down into his wine and muttered what sounded like “the south of France.”
“Oh, do speak up, Morris, if you mean to say anything at all.”
“It was nothing, my dear,” he said mildly. “I merely thought you might have given them a chance.”
“A chance to rob us blind is all.” She turned away from her husband, and her expression became pleasant and indulgent. “Well, well. Good thing one of us is practical, eh, Mr. Farthering? I expect you’re the practical one in your family.”
“Not at all, I’m afraid,” Drew replied. “I spend my time careering about the country, poking my nose into other people’s business and annoying the police. Madeline here’s the practical one.”
Madeline gave him a cheeky grin. “You haven’t had the latest bill from my dressmaker yet.”
The conversation shifted to the outrageous cost of nearly everything these days and then to the cost of refurbishing the north wing, which took them through the remainder of dinner and into the drawing room for cards. Not long after, the Grays took their leave.
The three couples walked out toward the Grays’ Bentley, but Morris Gray hung back.
“Oh, I say, Farthering?”
Drew slowed beside him while Beaky was settling Mrs. Gray in the passenger seat.
Gray cleared his throat. “I—well, since you are here to investigate, I expect I’d ought to own up.”
“Own up?”
Gray looked both amused and embarrassed. “About those things that were taken. The ones the wife claims were stolen by gypsies. Utter nonsense, of course. They merely spent the night on the moor. Their own wagons. Their own food. I daresay they might have gotten away with some water from the stream, but that’s the most of it. If they did somehow take the other things, they’re more than welcome, as I said. But one thing they didn’t get was that bottle of wine. I’m afraid that one was me.”
“You?”
Gray nodded. “Frances doesn’t like me to drink. That is, besides the one glass at dinner and only if we’re in company. But hang it all, sometimes I need a little bit of something. Steady the nerves and that. It’s not as if I need to have it.”
“No, to be sure,” Drew said, not sure at all.
“I usually get something on my own from the village and don’t bother the stuff from the kitchen, but I suppose I thought that bottle wouldn’t be missed, not just the one time. I should have known better.” His shoulders went up in a halfhearted shrug. “Frances never misses anything.”
“Perhaps you should let her know,” Drew suggested. “Then she wouldn’t be worried about intruders lurking about.”
“Oh, uh . . . no. No, I think she’s all right. Now that she’s sent the gypsies off, I don’t think she’s too worried anymore.”
“You know best, I suppose. But the things that were stolen, do you have any theories about that?”
“Silly thing to worry about, isn’t it? I don’t care about the stuff, and I don’t think the gypsies are going to murder us all in our beds, no matter what Frances says.”
“Morris!” Mrs. Gray leaned over toward the window on the driver’s side of the car. “Do hurry. It’s getting colder by the minute.”
He looked at the starless sky with a sigh. “Yes, I do believ
e it is.”
He got behind the wheel and, with a final farewell to his host, drove away.
The following morning was bright and sunny with not a cloud in sight. As usual, Sabrina slept in, but Drew and Madeline found Beaky already at the breakfast table, squinting into a newspaper.
“Good morning, old man,” Drew called as he picked up a plate from the buffet. “Anything interesting?”
The newspaper rustled down to the table.
“There you are.” Beaky’s freckles were more prominent than usual against his pale skin. “I have some dreadful news.”
Madeline glanced at Drew, taking the chair he pulled out for her.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m afraid there’s been another murder.”
Seven
The Burrows was a narrow little house just off the high street, not far from the church.
“This is where she lived?” Drew asked.
“It was, sir.” Trenton opened the door and then stepped back to allow Madeline, Drew, and Beaky to go in first. “She was found just there.”
His close-set eyes bright and eager, he indicated an overstuffed chair opposite the unlit hearth. It was covered in a fussy floral fabric, the crocheted doily that had no doubt been draped over the back now lying torn on the polished floor. There was no blood. Only the torn doily, a broken teacup, and a disarranged rag rug gave evidence of a struggle. Evidently it didn’t take much to snuff out the life of one elderly lady.
“It’s not much to go on, I’ll grant you,” the sergeant said, “but with your experience, sir, it might be you could help us sort things out a bit. We don’t have much by way of murder here in Bunting’s Nest, and now two in less than a week, well, it’s more than we know what to do with.”
“I haven’t actually—”
The sergeant held up his hand. “It’s no use being modest, sir. I’ve read the accounts about you and your missus, and if Mr. Bloodworth says you’re the article, you’re the article.”
Murder on the Moor Page 8