Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Once again this year, everything for the tournament had been planned to perfection and even the weather had complied nicely. Celebrities had been photographed arriving in Birmingham’s airport with captions in gossip papers about how they were attending Healy’s famed and exclusive tennis party.

  The tennis pros and their coaches had arrived and were readying themselves for their matches. The public and press waited eagerly at the entrance gates to catch sight of the famous and the infamous. Dark-suited security officers patrolled the estate while caterers were busy managing the dining facilities within immense, white billowing tents.

  Martha and Helen arrived looking like typical summer lawn tennis spectators. They wandered around to the refreshment tents for a glass of chardonnay and a bowl full of summer berries with clotted cream while surreptitiously eyeing the collection of who’s who.

  Martha’s cell phone rang. The number displayed was the Marsden-Lacey’s police station.

  “This can’t be good,” she said to Helen as she answered the phone. “Hello, this is Martha Littleword speaking.”

  “Mrs. Littleword, DCI Johns, Marsden-Lacey Police. I’m letting you know that until further notice I’ll need you and Mrs. Ryes to stay in contact with the station. You’re potential suspects in a murder investigation.”

  “Murder?” Martha said a bit too loudly.

  Helen’s eyes flew open at the word and a blueberry almost escaped from her mouth due to her dropped jaw.

  “That’s right. Sir Carstons died in the hospital. I need to be able to keep close tabs on everyone involved. You found the body, so stay in town for awhile,” Johns said. “Oh, yeah, I’ll be getting in touch with your cohort, the Ryes woman, to tell her the same thing.”

  “Don’t bother, Inspector. My cohort is right here. I’ll tell her myself.” Martha ended the call.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Helen asked in a whispery voice.

  Martha could see what was coming but Helen went on.

  “Oh, my God. Sir Carstons is dead. What if we had done more? What if it’s our fault he didn’t make it?”

  “Don’t go there, Helen. It wasn’t our fault and we did everything we were able to do. I wish old Johns could see you right now, then he would be absolutely convinced that you aren’t a murderer.”

  “What?” Helen roared as people turned to look at them. “What do you mean ‘convinced I’m not a murder?’”

  People in the dining tent whispered to each other while throwing furtive glances at Martha and Helen.

  “Okay, simmer down,” Martha said in a firm but hushed voice. “He doesn’t want us to leave the village for a short bit because we’re potential suspects in a murder investigation. We need to stick around.”

  “I can’t. I absolutely can’t stay any longer. First, my reservation is almost up at the hotel from hell and I need to get back to Leeds to start work on some of these conservation jobs.” Helen was taking the denial route.

  Martha sat back in her chair and stirred the berries around in their cream with a silver spoon. “You know what? You can stay with me. I’ve got a dog and a cat, though. Some people don’t like animals in a house but they’re my kids now that Katie is at Oxford. I’ve got plenty of room and it’s definitely quieter than The Kings Way.”

  Helen studied her new friend’s face, looked down at her hands lying limply in her lap, and started to cry. “I feel like things are so out of control, you know?”

  Martha did see, and because she was a deeply nurturing soul, she wanted to make Helen’s situation better somehow.

  “Hey, it’s not all that bad,” she coaxed. “We’ll have fun. Do you like pets?” She patted Helen’s hand maternally.

  “Yeess, I do.” Helen sniffled using her table napkin to wipe her nose.

  “Well, then, it’s settled. You’re staying with me until this thing is done and we can work something out with Chief Inspector Johns about your work in Leeds. He’ll have to work with us somehow.”

  Martha picked up her purse and Helen dried her eyes. They meandered around the beautiful grounds of Healy House like two old friends visiting a pretty garden.

  It was a fantasy land of natural and human-inspired beauty. Their spirits picked up and they found themselves laughing at Martha’s story of her recent mugging in the market place by some teenager. They were having a good time for being murder suspects and even had high prospects for an enchanting evening with the handsome, eligible, and wealthy prince of Healy, Piers Cousins.

  Chapter 12

  CHIEF INSPECTOR JOHNS SAT IN his chair at the police station. He was off duty so he reached into the bottom drawer of the file cabinet and pulled out a woman’s purse. It was a nice, black number, discrete and something most women might have in their wardrobe. This made it a perfect place in a police chief’s office to hide a bottle of scotch whiskey. No one would ever look there.

  He made a cup of black tea and added the whiskey. The phone rang and he grimaced. It was like the universe enjoyed messing with him some days.

  He picked up the phone. “Johns, here,” he said in a grumpy tone.

  “Sergeant Cross here, Chief Inspector. We have the forensic reports on the Carstons’ case. Looks like his head was smashed in by a blunt object and it had to be a good sized one. We didn’t find anything the day of the attack that might have been the murder weapon. Should I go back again to The Grange and take a look around the garden?”

  “Yeah, I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes, Sergeant.”

  This was Marsden-Lacey’s first murder in six years and young Sergeant Cross could barely contain his enthusiasm. It was like giving a kid his first bike, thought Johns as he swigged down the rest of his tea, grabbed two cookies and stuffed them into his pocket. He wouldn't be having dinner anytime soon, and he wished Cross wasn’t so gung-ho. It would have been nice to stop into The Traveller’s Inn and get something to eat tonight. Lilly would be working.

  When he arrived at The Grange, Sergeant Cross was already there and he signaled for Johns to join him by the rock wall overlooking the hillside toward the village.

  “Eager beaver,” Johns thought to himself.

  “Okay, Cross, what have you found?” he asked.

  “Sir, I think I should scramble down the side and take a look. We’ve scouted the entire area except this hillside. Since it’s now a murder investigation, we might see if anything was tossed over. I waited for you to decide.”

  “Go ahead, son. If you find something, leave it. We’ll need to call in forensics.”

  Ten minutes later, as Johns sat on the stone wall outside The Grange finishing his cookies and pondering the universe’s sense of humor, Sergeant Cross called up jubilantly from the side of the hill.

  “I found it, Sir! It’s matted with blood!”

  Johns looked down the slope. Sergeant Cross smiled up at him like a puppy who had fetched his first ball.

  “Get yourself up here. I’m calling Thompson. His forensic team will take it from here.”

  Johns looked down the hill at the young man scrambling up towards him. He was a good kid and it had been nice for a change to work with someone who still had a thrill for the job. Youthful enthusiasm could infect even a cynic like Johns.

  “Cross, nice job and good instincts,” Johns gruffly complimented the young detective.

  “Thanks. Sir, there is one thing more. I saw a hefty-sized rock with blood on it, but something else was with it.”

  “Oh? What did you find?” Cross had Johns’ full attention.

  “There appears to be a piece of paper stuck to the rock or maybe a torn half of a check. I couldn’t tell exactly,” Cross said. “It may have stuck to it as it rolled down the hill, but I thought it might be of importance.”

  “Could you make anything out on it?”

  “Yes, Sir. It had a name. Said ‘Cousins.’”

  HELEN AND MARTHA WERE ENJOYING their tea time in one of the open dining tents when Helen’s mobile rang.

  “Hello,” sh
e said.

  “Mrs. Ryes? Hello, this is Piers Cousins. I wanted to offer you and Mrs. Littleword one of my guest rooms to rest in and refresh yourselves before dinner. If you will come round by the small garden door, my housekeeper, Mrs. Thyme will show you to your room.”

  Helen smiled showing a dimple in her right cheek.

  “Oh thank you. That would be lovely.”

  She ended the call. “Looks like there’s another treat in store for us today. Piers Cousins offered us a room to rest in until dinner. Follow me.”

  It was hard to suppress the excitement of seeing inside such a wonderful house. They made their way to the house’s west side but once they reached the door, Helen came to an abrupt stop. Waiting to let himself through the gate was Mr. Louis Devry, The Grange’s curator.

  “Mr. Devry? Hello,” Helen said, surprised at seeing the missing curator.

  “Mrs. Ryes, hello. How are you this afternoon? You must be attending Piers’ dinner tonight, too. It’s always wonderful to be at Healy,” Devry said with a warm smile.

  Louis Devry stood six feet tall and weighed about 190 pounds. His sandy blond hair was trimmed short in a conventional manner for men and he looked to be in his mid-forties.

  He had the accent of an Englishman who had spent a good deal of his young life in America probably near Boston. He was dressed in a light summer suit of grey with simple dark loafers and no wedding ring. On the whole, he was a pleasant-looking man who looked over-tired and slightly worried.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Devry, but have you been made aware of the terrible incident which happened yesterday at The Grange?” Helen asked.

  “No, I’m sorry I had to leave yesterday in a hurry. A care nurse telephoned from Oxton and said my mother was ill. I went to her immediately.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that and I hope she’s doing better,” Helen replied then pushed on. “Mr. Devry, I’m sorry to tell you but there was a terrible attack on Sir Alan Carstons. He was found senseless. Someone hit him in the head. The police came and he was taken to the hospital. He…died.”

  Louis Devry blinked at her like he couldn’t take in what she had said. Without responding to her, he leaned back against the rock wall and took his handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He wiped his forehead and flushed visibly.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Devry?” Helen asked.

  “Oh, Mrs. Ryes,” he said breathlessly. “How did it happen?”

  Helen glanced quickly at Martha who raised her eyebrows and shrugged slightly as if to say, “Go ahead but I’m glad it’s you and not me.”

  “No one knows exactly what happened but someone hit him from behind. He didn’t regain consciousness at the hospital. Maybe someone was trying to rob the museum. The police will probably want to talk with you,” Helen finished.

  “Of course.” The exhaustion in Devry’s face intensified and he was looking unwell.

  Martha, who had been fiddling with the gate’s latch, finally worked the mechanism and the gate swung open. Helen and Devry followed her into the small, walled garden.

  Martha turned to Devry. “Mr. Devry, my name is Martha Littleword. I was supposed to meet with you yesterday to take your statement. I’m with Partridge, Sims and Cuthbirt.”

  “Why, yes, Mrs. Littleword. I am so sorry. Mary wasn’t around and once I got the call from my mother, everything else went out of my mind. Would tomorrow be okay to try again?”

  “Yes, thank you. Would three o’clock be convenient?”

  “I think that will work fine,” Devry replied. This last bit was said with a vagueness which didn’t inspire confidence in his remembering the next meeting any better than he had the first.

  They reached the flagstone patio to the rear of the house and pulled the bell chain hanging beside a wide set of French doors. A small, bright-eyed woman with a perfectly white apron opened the door.

  “Louis. How are you? It is so good to see you again,” she said with warmth and obvious joy at seeing an old, much-loved visitor to Healy. Then looking at Helen and Martha, she gave them a big smile, “And you must be the guests Mr. Cousins told me about. I’m Mrs. Thyme, Mr. Cousins’ housekeeper. Follow me and I’ll show you your rooms.”

  They had been let into the back of the house along a corridor flanked on one side by ornate, multi-paned clear windows and an honey-colored, oak-paneled wall on the other. The sunlight dappled across the flagstone floors and made shadows dance along the passageway. Soft tones of green coming in from the garden gave the space a feeling of peacefulness and timelessness.

  Too soon, they came to a low door which opened into the main hall. Mrs. Thyme gestured for the group to follow her up the stairs. She merrily chatted about the day’s excitement and the number of famous people staying in the house.

  Louis Devry was shown his room where he said good-bye to Martha and Helen, promising to see them later at the dinner. The girls followed Mrs. Thyme to the end of the hallway. There she opened the door into an exquisite bedroom.

  Two mahogany twin beds sat side by side, each with canopies made from a rose-patterned chintz fabric. In between the beds lived a small Sheridan night stand with an exquisite brass student’s lamp sporting a green shade. The old oak beams of the room were blackened with age and stood out in contrast to the plaster of the walls which was painted a simple, fresh butter color.

  Every comfort had been considered by their host. Bottles of water and a tin of chocolates were placed on the night stand with a small, delicately-printed card which read:

  “Stranger, what e’er thy land or creed or race,

  Here rest awhile, there’s virtue in the place.” -- Anonymous

  A beautiful bouquet of fresh, summer flowers had been placed on a round cherry-wood table and a basket full of toiletries sat on a delicate, ladies dressing table.

  Martha moved towards the open windows. A gentle breeze lifted her hair as she pulled aside the lace curtains and looked out onto the manicured lawn which stretched down to the river and the pastures beyond.

  Mrs. Thyme showed them the adjoining bath then reminded them that dinner would be served at eight but cocktails started at seven. She let herself out and with a soft click of the door, left Helen and Martha alone.

  “Does this place give you an oddly wonderful feeling?” Helen asked.

  They could hear the cheers from the tennis matches still taking place but the sound was muffled by the distance between the house and the courts. There was an unspeakable pleasantness and peace that came from relaxing in such a delightful room.

  “Yes it does,” Martha said in a slow, lazy way as she sat down on one of the beds and fiddled with trying to open one of the chocolate tins. “It’s like I have slipped off into a happy dream and I don’t want to wake up.”

  Helen watched Martha flip her shoes across the room. “I know. It’s almost as if I’ve taken some kind of tranquilizer and everything is how it’s supposed to be. I get the feeling some people might do whatever it takes to wrangle an invitation to visit Healy.”

  “I think,” Martha replied as she popped one of the chocolates from the opened tin into her mouth and stretched out on the soft bed, wriggling her bare toes, “that some people might take it further than an invitation, Helen. I think some people might even commit murder to have Healy House.”

  Chapter 13

  IT WAS LATER AFTER THEIR rest and the chocolate tin was nearly empty that Martha realized she had left her dress shoes in her car. As she made her way down the staircase, she saw Louis Devry with a manila envelope under his arm walking into one of the rooms off the main hall.

  Martha was an avid visitor of historic homes, but the lure of sneaking a glance into some of Healy’s rooms made her want to follow Devry. If he stopped, she could always offer a nice “Hello,” and it would seem as if she weren’t being a tourist but friendly.

  Approaching the doorway, she realized it must be Piers Cousins’ study. Through the half-opened door, she saw a massive, mahogany desk piled with papers. She heard
Cousins’ voice, sharp with irritation.

  Instinct made her hesitate and instead of continuing into the room, she looked both ways to see if anyone was around then secreted herself into the doorway’s alcove and listened. Piers was talking with Louis Devry about Sir Carstons' death. Piers’ voice became muffled. Then, in a louder voice, she heard Piers say, “He was such a vicious bastard, Louis. I’m glad he’s dead. Now maybe I’ll be able to get somewhere with my suit.”

  Martha’s body stiffened at his vehemence. She leaned in closer to hear better.

  “Yes, Piers, he was the worst kind of bully. Women and children were his favorite prey. No one would have liked to see him dead more than me,” Louis Devry was saying.

  Martha heard a door open down the hall and she jumped back into the corridor as Mrs. Thyme bustled around the corner.

  “Oh, Mrs. Littleword. I nearly ran you down,” a flustered Mrs. Thyme said.

  “I came down to get my shoes from my car,” Martha said acutely aware of the squeakiness of her voice. “It might take me some time to walk over to the car park. Will it be okay if I let myself in through the garden again?”

  “Oh, I’m so busy with everything there is to do by tonight, I can barely keep my wits about me. You help yourself, dear.” Mrs. Thyme hurried off down the corridor.

  Martha made her way into the sunlight of the garden and took a deep breath. “You almost landed yourself in a mess that time, Martha,” she mumbled out loud.

  During the day, Helen and Martha had speculated on who wanted Sir Carstons dead and why. A burglary no longer seemed logical because nothing had been taken from the museum. Carstons was found with his wallet and his Rolex on his arm. Whoever smashed in Sir Carstons’ head didn’t want quick cash.