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

by Sigrid Vansandt

  One thing was for certain, Martha hadn’t noticed the circle in the wall during the night’s entertainment because of the intimate lighting, so whoever shot Piers was familiar with Healy House.

  They finally heard sirens. The young doctor who had been keeping watch over Piers gave way to the paramedics and watched over their efforts.

  Within ten minutes a second set of sirens pushed their way towards Healy and shortly afterward, a rumpled DCI Johns stomped into the garden. His mouth was in a grim hard line and his hair was more rigid than ever.

  The paramedics placed Piers on a gurney and into the ambulance, then left Healy at breakneck speed. Johns turned his attention to the crime scene. His officers had cordoned off the area and were waiting for Johns to address the guests.

  “I’ll need everyone to stay put for a while until we do some interviewing and some forensic tests,” Johns said. “Start bagging people’s hands, sergeant. Make sure you don’t miss a soul.”

  IT HAD BEEN TWO HOURS since the ambulance left with Piers and during that time, the police were busy interviewing the guests. Johns commandeered a sitting room as his special place to do interviews and Mrs. Thyme, the housekeeper, was his current prey. In his estimation though, she wasn’t playing fair because all she was able to do was sniffle, cry and occasionally babble incoherently into her handkerchief.

  “I’ll need your full name, please, for the statement, and your position here,” Johns said.

  “Mrs. Hilda Thyme and I’m the housekeeper for Mr. Cousins.”

  “Mrs. Thyme, how many guests were invited to the dinner party?”

  “I think it was thirty-five but not everyone could make it, you see?”

  She looked up at him in a way as if to ask if he did see.

  Unfortunately for Johns, he didn’t see anything at that moment but the heavy, mahogany door gently opening and a bunch of red hair poking around the door’s edge.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  “Um, Chief Inspector, it’s me, Martha Littleword.”

  “Oh, my God. Are you here, too?” Johns said. “Littleword, do you attend every violent criminal act in this village?”

  “Yes. I mean, no,” Martha said. “I might be able to offer you some help, though, if you would try and be a little nicer.”

  She put her left hand on her hip and pursed her lips at him.

  Johns’ blood pressure began to rise. What was the connection between this woman and all the disasters unleashed on Marsden-Lacey in the last forty-eight hours?

  Remembering to try and be polite, his professionalism returned with a great force of effort. “What did you see, Mrs. Littleword?”

  “There was someone in Piers’ office earlier this evening. Whoever it was had rifled through his desk and I came in on them. It was dark so I couldn’t see who it was but possibly it was the murderer,” Martha said with a glint of excitement in her eyes.

  “What makes you think it was the murderer? With this crowd it could have been someone trying to lift something. Probably knew Cousins was a wealthy man and wanted to take home their own version of a memento of the evening.”

  “I think the person was trying to access Piers’ computer for some reason,” Martha offered.

  Johns turned to his sergeant. “Cross, get the forensic team into Cousin’s office. Go through it and yell if you find anything important.”

  “As for you, Mrs. Littleword, thank you for your information and by the way, where were you when Cousins was shot?” Johns asked. His tone implied he was teasing her a bit.

  Martha’s face flushed. Johns’ expression showed he was waiting for a reply.

  “I…I…was in the main hall with Helen.”

  “Helen Ryes? Okay,” he said looking down at his shoes and shaking his head. “I want both of you to meet me in Cousins’ office in ten minutes.” He finished in a commanding tone.

  “Cross!” he yelled, “Where is Cross? I need a strong cup of tea and has anybody got an aspirin?”

  Martha held up her index finger. “I do,” she said. “It’s probably in my purse. I’ll run and get it.”

  Johns stood there looking at her like she was an oddity of nature but he managed a simple grunt and a thank you. He turned to Mrs. Thyme and thanked her for her statement, dismissing her. The weeping housekeeper left the room and Johns called the sergeant to send in another person he could interview. He had forgotten Martha’s offer completely.

  MARTHA LEFT THE LIBRARY AND immediately wondered at her own weird behavior. Why in the world was she going out of her way to get an aspirin for that bad-tempered grump? She felt so funny and lightheaded in there. Better get the aspirin and try not to think too much about it. The whole evening had been so intense. Maybe everything was finally catching up with her.

  The way to her room wasn’t lit so she used the soft moonlight coming in from the multi-paned window near the end of the hallway to find her door. She let herself in and turned on the small lamp by the chair. The aspirin was in her purse so she grabbed it and let herself back out of the room.

  A soft breeze came gently down the hallway from the open windows. As she reached the top of the stairwell, a strong push on her back hurled her downwards. The last thing she remembered was falling. Then pain and darkness.

  Chapter 16

  “MARTHA, ARE YOU OKAY? MARTHA, can you hear me?”

  Martha could hear a man’s voice but her eyes didn’t want to open to see who it belonged to. Then the terrible headache swam up into her consciousness. Her throbbing head was all her mind was able to process at first, but slowly she remembered falling.

  With a great effort, she lifted her eyes open and the first face she saw was DCI Johns’. He leaned over her with his face close to hers. Giddiness fluttered up into her stomach but then pain tore through her head, causing her to wince and shut her eyes.

  “Can you hear me, Martha?” he asked gently.

  His voice reminded her of Martin’s when he had been concerned. She tried to form words but all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. She shut her eyes and heard people clamoring about on the stairs. The vibrations from their movements melded with the hammering in her head.

  “What happened?” a worried woman’s voice asked. Martha thought it sounded like Helen. The voice was slipping away and Martha had to will herself to stay conscious.

  “She’s taken a tumble down the stairs,” Johns said.

  “Martha? She seems as sure-footed as a goat.”

  Martha flinched at the comparison.

  “Oh, she must be in pain. See how she screwed up her face right then. We need to get a doctor in here. I’ll go look for him. Keep her comfortable.” Helen jumped up and left the room.

  “Martha, try and open your eyes,” Johns said coaxingly.

  Martha, with every physical effort available to her, lifted her eyelids with a flutter and Johns’ concerned face came into focus. As she lifted up her arm and touched his chest, he looked down. He stared at her hand, as she weakly opened it. There in her palm were the aspirins she had gone to get for him. Her hand dropped and she lost consciousness again.

  “IF YOU WANT MY HONEST opinion, I think she needs to be in hospital tonight,” the young doctor said after evaluating Martha who was now lying on the sofa in the library.

  It was now past twelve-o’clock midnight. The house was quieting down and most of the guests had departed after their statements or had gone upstairs to bed.

  “I’m fine. I want to go home and rest,” Martha said rubbing her temples.

  “Martha, you need to be completely checked out to make sure nothing is wrong,” Helen said putting special emphasis on the word “wrong” and pointing repeatedly at her own head.

  “Helen, I get the point, but nothing is broken. My head can be checked out tomorrow. All I want is some sleep.”

  “I think it would be best if she didn’t move much. Would it be possible for her to rest here tonight, Mrs. Thyme?” the doctor asked.

  “Oh, of co
urse she’s perfectly welcome to stay here tonight,” Mrs. Thyme said. “There are a few other guests staying on even after everything that’s happened. Mrs. Ryes, would you be staying tonight as well?”

  “If it wouldn’t be any trouble. Then in the morning I’ll drive Martha into Wayford to the hospital.”

  “Mrs. Ryes, if you need anything tonight, please come and get me,” the doctor offered. “My wife and I are in the last room on the second floor near the tall grandfather clock. Goodnight.”

  “Let’s get you into bed,” Helen said to Martha. “Chief Inspector, will you please help me get Martha up the stairs and then I can do the rest?”

  “Yes, of course. Come on Mrs. Littleword, let’s get you into bed.”

  Martha flushed red. Helen’s eyebrows knitted together, perplexed by Martha’s reaction.

  DCI Johns walked across the room and bent down, putting one arm under Martha’s legs and one arm to support her back. He lifted Martha off the sofa and prepared to carry her up the stairs.

  He moved so fast, she didn’t realize it was happening until he was holding her up against his chest. Taken completely off her guard, Martha waved her hands in an effort to stop him from going anywhere.

  “Oh, please. That isn’t necessary. I can walk just fine,” Martha said trying to get her feet on the floor.

  “Well, if you’re sure. I’ll put my arm here for you to hold on to,” he said.

  She took hold of his arm feeling the strength and solidness of his being.

  As the three of them made their way upstairs, Martha found she kind of liked the way Johns smelled of pine and sandalwood. He was nice to lean on, too.

  Johns insisted on helping them to their door. Once in, they said goodnight and thanked him.

  THE GIRLS WENT ABOUT THEIR nighttime routines and Martha managed hers without any help. They turned out all the lights except the little lamp between their beds. Helen shoved a wingback chair under the door knob to the bedroom. She wasn’t taking any chances.

  Once they were finally tucked in under soft duvets and their eyes were shut, Martha said softly, “Someone pushed me, Helen. Down the stairs.”

  Helen sat bolt upright and looked at Martha who was still lying down, eyes shut and her hands loosely gripping the top edge of the duvet.

  “Really?”

  “Yep, really.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything to the Chief Inspector?”

  “I didn’t want any more fuss made.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine, but we’re in a big house, in the dark, and a murderer is lurking about. Helen’s voice rose with anxiety.

  “I think it’s the same person who shot Piers and whoever it is thinks I’ve seen something,” Martha said with her eyes still shut.

  Helen flopped back down on her pillows. She pulled the duvet up under her chin like a protective shield and closed her eyes. “Martha, we’re in it deep.”

  “You said it, sister. Piers could be dying, I’ve got a psychotic killer hunting me, and don’t you think Johns is attractive?”

  Helen’s eyelids flipped open. She turned her head to make sure it was Martha who was actually talking. “Are you kidding me? You put those three thoughts together in the same sentence?”

  Then as an afterthought she mumbled, “Piers isn’t going to die.”

  The room was quiet for a few minutes while Helen mused on what Martha had said. “You know, he is very strong and has a sense of power to his persona. Johns, I mean.”

  “I’ll say, and I’ve got dibs on him. Did you see him try and pick me up? He didn’t even grunt or show signs of straining himself.” Martha laughed, causing Helen to shake her head.

  “Oh, Martha. You’ve got one of those womanly bodies. Men love that. By the way, I’m not looking for a new man in my life right now. Still burned from the whole George and Fiona situation.”

  They were both quiet again for a moment then Martha piped up.

  “Helen, we are going to find out who is behind all this. For one, even though you won’t admit it, you have your eye on Cousins so you probably don’t want him dead. Secondly, I’m afraid for my life because some nut job thinks I know something or saw something. Maybe I have. I’m not sure what it might be though. And lastly, I’m bored.”

  Helen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Bored? You’re lying there with a concussion. The last two days have been more exciting than the last two decades of my life.”

  “Exactly. I want some excitement in my life, some adventure. You in?”

  Helen thought about it. Her job and her personal life had been slowly grinding to a dull nub lately. She had always loved a good mystery book. Why not live one instead?

  “I’m in. Besides, this is personal. Somebody has tossed a corpse in my path and pushed my new best friend down the stairs. I owe them a payback.”

  “Aw, you’re so sweet, Rambo,” Martha cooed with her eyes still shut. “Let’s get some sleep and come up with a plan tomorrow. Try to sleep with one ear open tonight. We’ve got to keep our wits about us from now on.”

  Less than five minutes later they were both completely asleep. A soft rain tapped outside on the window panes and the wind had picked up, whispering and seeking entry amid the eaves of the old house.

  Shadows played along the bedroom’s walls and under the door. The doorknob twisted but entry was denied. A beautiful yet sturdy old wingback in a Colefax and Fowler chintz kept death at bay behind the door until it lost patience, and retreated to its own room for the night.

  Chapter 17

  “I’M GLAD YOU COULD COME in this morning, Sir,” DCI Johns said to Louis Devry on the following Sunday morning. “Have a seat.” He motioned for Devry to sit opposite him on the other side of his desk.

  “We haven’t had this much violence in Yorkshire since Hindley and Brady wreaked their special brand of horror and murder in the 60’s.” Johns sipped his black tea out of a substantial yellow mug.

  Louis Devry looked down at his hands, then turned them over and put his palms flat upon Johns’ desk. “Chief Inspector, how can I help you? I apologize if I’m not myself. Piers Cousins is probably my best friend in the world and the nurse this morning said his condition is only improving slowly.”

  Johns drummed his pen on the desk. “You know, Devry, you’ve got an interesting accent. Can’t place it. Where exactly are you from?”

  “I was born in Hartford, Connecticut. My father was English and he taught anthropology at Harvard.”

  “How’d you end up in England?”

  “We moved back to Oxford when I was twelve,” Devry said.

  “Is that where you met Piers Cousins?”

  “I met Piers at Eton. On holidays I would go home with him to Healy. It was more of a home to me than my own. You see, my mother died when I was eleven and my father quickly remarried.”

  “So, you must have gone to Oxford or was it Cambridge?” Johns scribbled something in his notebook.

  “Well, neither,” Devry said with a short laugh. “I went to Harvard. I missed home.”

  “Did you work in America?”

  “Yes. My first degree was in English literature so naturally one of the few avenues open to me was teaching. An absolutely exhausting experience. I taught in prep schools for a few years and then decided to go back and get my masters in curatorial studies. My first curatorial job was in Massachusetts working in a private collection.”

  Johns studied Louis Devry for a few seconds. “How did you end up here again, Mr. Devry?”

  “About a year ago I got a phone call from Piers. He asked if I would be interested in a position with a museum he was involved with. I thought it would be a nice way to catch up with friends and I was aware of The Grange’s famous collection. He invited me over for a look around and I wanted a change in my life, so I accepted.”

  “Do you have a wife, maybe a girlfriend?” Johns asked.

  “Long time ago. The family I worked for after I finished my master’s program had a daughter. Her n
ame was Emilia. I fell in love with her but she was sent to school in Switzerland. I never married.”

  Johns pushed further. “What ever happened to Emilia?”

  “She’s dead.” The muscle on the left hand side of Devry’s jaw tightened and then relaxed.

  Johns never took his gaze off Devry’s face and was acutely aware of the man’s every movement and energy. “How did she die?”

  “In child birth. It still happens you know? Women still die that way. She was extremely ill during the pregnancy and it took a toll. I was told something went wrong and she lost too much blood. She never regained consciousness. She died too young.”

  The last words were said more to the clenched hands in his lap than to Johns.

  “What happened to the child? Did it live?” Johns asked.

  Louis Devry actually blanched. Johns realized he had hit a nerve.

  “I…I…believe Emilia’s husband, Sir Carstons, would have been raising the child.”

  There it was. An extremely bitter connection between the two men: a woman. Johns noted that Devry had said “raising” not “father.”

  “Emilia was married to Sir Carstons?”

  Devry nodded in the affirmative.

  “He has been described as a brutal man. Do you know if he was the same with his wife and child?”

  Devry took a deep breath and the vein in his neck pulsated visibly. “Emilia was a free spirit. I would like to believe she might have left Sir Carstons once the child was born. I’ll never know, of course.”

  Johns decided to change direction in his questioning. “You said you had gone to see your mother the day Sir Carstons was killed. A stepmother I presume?”

  “Yes, Carissa is my stepmother but I call her mother. She has been like one to me since I was twelve. At first I resented her and made her life a hell, but she would bring me treats and knew how much I loved books. If there was ever a woman who truly loved me, it’s Carissa. I’ve been blessed to have her in my life.” He finished with a barely audible sigh.

  “Mr. Devry where were you last night before Mr. Cousins was shot?”